Immaculate, bereft, deserving to be found

To go with it, John Cage's "In a Landscape", Piano Solo.

Sleep Cycle
Dean Young

We cannot push ourselves away
from this quiet, even in our sprees
of inattention, the departing passengers 
stubbing out their smokes, arrivees in tears, 
lots of cellophane, the rumpus over parking.

Wind scrapes leaves across the road, 
first flashes of snow, it is dark then
it’s really dark. Forgive me for not
writing for so long, I’ve been
right beside you, one of the vaguer
divinities blocking your way with its need 
to confess all its botched attempts at love, 
what started the whole mess.

I love this place, 
its absurd use of balustrade, the chairs 
that dig into the spine, motorcyclists 
propping their drunk girlfriends in the sun, 
men playing timed chess with themselves, 
the guarantees and warnings that entice us 
to the brink of what they warn about.

But we can do no more than pass through 
these rooms and their sudden chills 
where once a plea was entered almost 
unintentionally that seemed at last 
to reveal ourselves to ourselves,
immaculate, bereft, deserving to be found.