When maybe a sparrow clicked his nail On the dry slate, and a barrowman called Something somewhere below maybe; So many rhythms in the air, But one especially that ran Over and over drowsily As the sun dropped from the world's edge
This is the nearest warmth that we can knots,
And maybe slept as the dark came.
There was a train that grumbled, miles below.
1 was too vigilant, too tense, Unsure of everything except The rhythm that ran in my brain Over and over drowsily Because this contentment cannot last,
Though it's the only warmth that we can know•