I always come thrice.

I meet the door-bell, --

In my thick carpet-slippers

Warm night coat about my shoulders

That keeps me safe from the quietness

Of night’s disquiet, --

That I have myself sounded,

Winter’s last rags

Are my bone hair

And my feet bruise the memory of this earth

That I walked

All night

All winter

Outside my own door.

I do recognize

The warmth of indoor smile

And the ghoul of cold

Picking its way round the stubble of grimace

Across the breadth

Of the door’s looking glass

On my face.

I see myself

In cities estranged by memory

Under skies endeared by light

Looking up at clouds

And wondering

What I was doing

When light touched earth lightly

On the shoulder

Once

Everyday since

Light came thrice

To rouse

A loneliness

That even my third coming

Does not allay.

 

9^th January, 2020