in winter at five oclock
it is the vesper time for going home.
ing pride has put back the clock.
Our culture's but a whisper as we comb
hair; put on turn's coat
pick up a briefcase full of late night thought,
goodbye to the conscientious goat
and hurry off to the oblivion we bought
exchanging our life for a mortgage.
We know we should confess but keep forgetting.
is there a voltage shortage
in us at this hour, so that we're near admitting
dears that are bad and tired?
On the slope to the station, yellow leaves
de beneath us on the mired
paving, fill God's own pillows. Lamplight weaves
loes round unconfessed pe-
destrians who slip, unvespered, over-
stening, half way up the
drizzling divide the commuter has to cover.