Mid-Flight

We rush, a black throng, Straight upon darkness: Motes scattered By the arc's rays.

Over the bridge fluttering, It is theatre-time, No one heeds.

Lost amid greenness We will sleep all night; And in the morning Coming forth, we will shake wet wings Over the settled dust of to-day.

The city hurls its cobbled streets after us, To drive us faster.

We must attain the night Before endless processions Of lamps Push us back. A clock with quivering hands Leaps to the trajectory-angle of our departure.

We leave behind pale traces of achievement: Fires that we kindled but were too tired to put out, Broad gold fans brushing softly over dark walls, Stifled uproar of night.

We are already cast forth: The signal of our departure Jerks down before we have learned we are to go.