The way to the river leads past the names of Ash the sleeves the wreaths of hinges Through the song of the bandage vendor
I lay your name by my voice As I go
The way to the river leads past the late Doors and the games of the children born looking backwards They play that they are broken glass The numbers wait in the halls and the clouds Call From windows They play that they are old they. are putting the horizon Into baskets they are escaping they are Hiding
I step over the sleepers the fires the calendars My voice turns to you
I go past the juggler's condemned building the hollow Windows gallery Of invisible presidents the same motion in them all In a parked cab by the sealed wall the hats are playing Sort of poker with somebody's
Old snapshots game I don't understand they lose The rivers one After the other I begin to know where I am I am home
Be here the flies from the house of the mapmaker Walk on our letters I can tell And the days hang medals between us I have lit our room with a glove of yours be Here I turn To your name and the hour remembers Its one word Now
Be here what can we Do for the dead the footsteps full of money I offer you what I have my Poverty
To the city of wires I have brought home a handful Of water I walk slowly In front. of me they are building the empty Ages I see them reflected not for long Be here I am no longer ashamed of time it is too brief its hands Have no names I have passed it I know
Oh Necessity you with the face you with All the faces
