It’s Getting There

I don’t often
talk about it.

The Depression of my days.

Nights are something
else. Bombs

and noise, speech

and sound. Nights
are something else.

Laden, leadened.
A body. The work

unmoving.

I don’t often talk.

We could be anywhere,
by now. I’m here—

working in a way,
no one can say.

I don’t often hear.
The Depression of my days.

Nights are something.
Music, silence

and song. Entirely
like the days.

Nights darkening;
elsewhere

to a working,
stiff.