There is no topping the tower
Which, as it gets further from view, is not
Approaching Word. The children playing
In the rain of shivers are not the same
Children you or I once knew. O they've grown
Into something fierce, and they are happy;
Happier, perhaps, than we. Can it be
You there on the porch swing in the flickering,
The June haze? And I at your side, as ever?

The children are flying kites beyond which
We can make out nothing. Will the turrets
Bash the mirror, reveal to us the point
Where the beams coincide, forging at last
A futile unity? But it is nice
To be here. It’s like a snowglobe, only
Open to all sorts, all seasons, to all.
And you have every right to leave, if you
Should want. But where else is there to go?

The Nature Theatre of Oklahoma.
But I prefer this maypole, where the kids
Drape the meadow in multicolored cloth
And lillitputian banter. We have
Made our home here, you and I, but must not
Keep it. The wind is picking up now,
Blowing in from the north, and we must change
With it, or return to dust. From now on,
What we say is of the utmost importance.

There across the tracks, the sun is rising
On the bad part of town, on the beaten
Tenement rooves, the wash lines and the rails.
The windows open in unison, dead air
Escapes into a revitalizing
Commerce. We watch it as it disappears.
There is no shelter from this change for the better;
The earth is everywhere shrugging off
The wet embers of a long distress.

And we are glad to welcome ourselves in.
Somewhere along the line, and this happens
To just about everyone, we succumb
To a bitterness, a need for laughter
Of a cowardly sort, at odds with real
Fire and motion, with a stranglehold
On keeping one’s distance. Sincerity
Is not an option; neither is feigning
Independence or disdain for what you want.

The higher you climb, the less there is
To decipher, and as the air gets thinner,
So does the desire to push on. But now
Is the pivotal moment, the only
Moment. Have we come so far to forsake
Our own aspirations? There is a deaf-
Ening, a scattering of smokes, a rush
Of onlookers to the balustrade
Where the alternate plots are unfolding.

And I hope that you will be among them,
That you will in turn offer your hand
Without asking, and not be too shy or
Sincere, and not turn away from the end.
It’s been a long time in the works, I know,
And you’ve so much riding on it, we all do.
I, for one, will do my best to not care
One way or the other, even if it
Means my life. I will act accordingly.

Now, in the valley, night is coming on.
It is a far cry from where we began.
The distant glistening spires redden
And the pin lights shimmer and inch along.
History leaves us here, not having made,
Perhaps, the right decisions, not having
Said our piece, but with a feeling of
Wholeness, completeness, before unthinkable.
This is what we have attained, this our lot.

But before we turn our backs on living,
Before the reddening blanches, the tongues
Fall short, before the final curtain falls
Over the cities and the towns, over
The sleepers in their idle habits,
The windows and the cinema screens, before
We really must say goodbye, may we take
What we’ve made and lift it, beyond saying,
Into the last late light before the pall.