If we go back, each in his own way, down
the years, it is done in a moment of abstraction;
one summer evening, the papers put down finally;
the knell of sound of birds, darkening skies mirrors
among the tree-styles, the homing in of buildings;
lights in rooms, like a reading of the present.
If we go back, here is where we inevitably
return: memory, speculation, a teeming
in the brain that twists the twilight scene
to its dark contours; Gethsemane time
for many; for me, too, that's how I know;
and I am sweating in the heat, saying the self-
same prayer that addresses ‘no one’, merely
recites itself in terms of its own calculation,
sincere, that sometimes makes a someone who is heard.