We left the Angel on the bench, pondering
Unholy Pigeons, when we heard the bells.
I shook my head to clear it—I could not believe
The Evening was coming. I asked my companion
If she knew what was on the other side of the Garden
Wall, and she pointed at the first stars, the new Moon.
It was as if reflection and regret were the same
In her eyes, so I headed for the River, a way out,
Seduced by constant movement, constant talking.
In the River I found something I could serve.
I stood in the midst of the swerving swifts
In their last passes over the passing water,
And gave up my only understanding—my meaning:
That, This, will never be more than the sound
Of the evening bells—not a warning, but a wakening.
