St. Michael's Curfew A limb stretched taut between A parapet and you below, Pulling your fingers White against stone, Boarding the balcony To swim alone in boatless seas Of hushed and oaken whispers Gently washing leafless trees That lean improbably together In this corner of a darkened city. Thus arrived, you cross yourself And pray small blessings upon Pedestrian passers-by Who cannot spare the moment To discern your twilight perch And search the sidewalk, unaware That none escapes this tower gaze, Escapes the pounce of grace, Whose hidden, apophatic face, Unlit, invisible, abides smoldering For six Junes hence and thence (Laura gone, behind in rents) Ignites one still, small reason Not to pull the trigger. Glory be for the prayers we do not hear.