Würzburg
Troubles My Sleep
for
Margy Sloan
It’s
not for you to know
the Residenz,
the palace,
opens out,
as he would
be that priest,
that you
could never be.
Which means
there is
another way to measure,
neither mine
nor yours.
If you would
listen
to the
tick-tick-tick
of clocks,
the
telephones of time,
they’d
tell us
just how well
this
courtyard
and this
garden’s
made.
Poems
can’t
be made
to
self-destruct,
the way a
garden can.
There’s
winter here,
the color of
the priest
who does for
white
all things
that neither you
nor I
can ever do.
