I am tired of being vigilant. When darkness comes,
let me open the gates of the walled city, and let you in
to wander the streets laid in river stone and pearl
beneath an artificial sky woven from the weathered lines
of your poems, the hush song of dark hens in their nests,
the thread-worn wings of fire and lightning. I will break
all the dams that surround this place, that hold back
what remains of snow and sorrow, whatever the mountain
has failed to keep in its secret vaults, in its high places.
I will let loose the moon from her moorings, and give
all the stars back to the toothless night. I have grown old
in my waiting, like a snail I have carried my armored world
with me, a labyrinth of names turned upon a lathe of song.