And then, one last poem from this book,
called "In the Midnight Hour," which is a title
I copped from a Wilson Pickett song years
ago, which I used to hear almost every night.
I was living in Venice when I wrote this.
And I would walk across this particular piazza.
And every night, someone would be
playing (SINGING) I had to wait till the midnight hour.
You know, it's a terrific song.
I wish this poem was as good as the song.
But it's a Venice poem, so it has
to do with water, naturally.
"The Midnight Hour."
This, too, is an old story, yet it is not death.
Still, the waters of darkness are in us.
In fact, they are rising, are rising toward our eyes,
and will wash against those windows
until they have stilled, until, utterly calm,
they have cleansed.
And then our lives will take substance and rise themselves.
And not like water and not like darkness, but like smoke,
like prayer.
Did the elevator just come down or something?
That was an amazing little ding.