Heart, be clean. Fists, be open, numb. 
Most lovely 

Lovely, let me be wrong in almost every 
Thing. That the page is waste, all that rag 

Content. That even despairing relentlessly cannot 

Spare you what you fear the most. 
Gamine, you are growing 

Old now; it’s your time. If you wait here 
For the noises of this night, 

They will sound out as the rustling of autumn, 
Spiky, dried of unctuous 

Airs, blazing like a chestnut horse on fire in 
The padlocked barn; 
                                   It is time it will be time.