O Come, & Do Not Take the Sound

O come, & do not take
the sound from me. Move quietly toward the
quake of the subway.
Move softly into the red light.
O come, & do not take the
light from its case.
Let it be, let it.

O come, & do not take
what's left of blue revision:
crumpled inhibition, a
smoked-out parka, in shades
of the better colors. O
come, do not take it, please.

O come, & do not take
my life from me. Move away from
the door, easily, there
there now, that does it. Put down your
hatchet & cutting board. Put up
your wallet. No use for it with me.

O come, do not pay
for what you need. We have moments where
things stand. Let them stand. Do
not unsheath from yourself.

O come, & do not ask
me questions. (I've written your memoir
already; I'll send it to you
at your home address, unless you would
rather I didn't, in which case
I will fax it to you directly, soon.)