And the air pours in with piano notes
 In its skirts, as though to say, “Look, John,
 I’ve brought these and these”—that is,
 A few Beethovens, some, Brahmses,

A few choice Poulenc notes. . . . Yes,
 It is being free again, the air, it has to keep coming back
 Because that’s all it’s good for.
 I want to stay with it out of fear

That keeps me from walking up certain steps,
 Knocking at certain doors, fear of growing old
 Alone, and of finding no one at the evening end
 Of the path except another myself

Nodding a curt greeting: “Well, you’ve been awhile
 But now we’re back together, which is what counts.”
 Air in My path, you could shorten this,
 But the breeze has dropped, and silence is the last word.