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.
Afternoon darkening;
elsewhere
to a working,
stiff.