Arrival

Morning, a glass door, flashes 
Gold names off the new city,
Whose white shelves and domes travel 
The slow sky all day 
I land to stay here;
And the windows flock open 
And the curtains fly out like doves 
And the past dries in a wind

Now let me lie down, under 
A wide-branched indifference,
Shovel faces like pennies 
Down the back of mind,
Find voices coined to 
An argot of motor-horns,
And let the cluttered-up houses 
Keep their thick lives to themselves

For this ignorance of me 
Seems a kind of innocence.
Fast enough I shall wound it.
Let me breathe till then 
Its milk-aired Eden,
Till my own life impound it - 
Slow-falling; grey-veil-hung; a theft,
A style of dying only.