The passionate are immobilized.

The case-hardened undulate over walls

of the library, in more or less expressive poses.

The equinox again, not knowing

whether to put the car in reverse

or slam on the brakes at the entrance

to the little alley. Seasons belong

to others than us. Our work keeps us

up late nights; there is no more joy

or sorrow than in what work gives.

A little boy thought the raven on the bluff

was a winged instrument; there is so little

that gives and says it gives. Others

felt themselves ostracized by the moon.

The pure joy of daily living became impacted

with the blood of fate and battles.

There’s no turning back the man says,

the one waiting to take tickets at the top

of the gangplank. Still, in the past

we could always wait a little. Indeed,

we are waiting now. That’s what happens.

from Where Shall I wander:  New Poems, by John Ashbery