Even as I watch you I am consumed
Even patterns formed by leaves on the sidewalk,
As impressionistic prints hanging on my wall, can tell you why
I stand around in bedclothes at the stroke of one, though I
Watch the lights turn green and red and green and red till
You turn the corner and come up the street, near to where
I stand around in bedclothes at the stroke of one, though I
Am not there to see you come home at last, utterly
Consumed by summers and springs and winters and autumns.
