After 'Sleep' by James Schuyler
The light grows old so elegantly,
Its needing a cane is a style.
Sky the blue of apology.
Pigeons on the fire escape,
Dim-witted, obvious.
It’s May now, as far as possible
From all elections.
No one is running. Even children
Walk as if through waist-high water.
Tired of choosing, a woman
Settles for whatever is
In the cupboard.
Her son could call, you know.
Impossible but I want to be alone
And with everybody, all at once.