He Was a Visitor

RONALD SILLIMAN

RONALD SILLIMAN

HE WAS A VISITOR

Cast flesh

as the song into the room is cast

wholly:

no man wanders life untouched:

if I lie it is the sadness in me that is refusal:

if it is the city life, no matter,

there are walkways, paths between gardens and into gardens,

there is even the center in the night

built upon silence:

the violins I never understand or the flutings,

such narrowness of caution,

pitch:

books are real, they can drown:

how in the harbor the moon is enough,

how the street is plenty:

these fine walls we give to the buildings, the windows built

therein.