Strait is the gate
and maybe hungry dogs watch over
where all must pass through
before ascending to the place of departures.
      I send them on their way
each one with their tiny suitcase
its hand clutched in their hand
as if it were a tiny, leather child.
These are the ones with tickets
      for the other side.
. . .























. . .
The bus station is a baggy coat
and I fit this pocket like a flask,
my back to the wall the better to watch
my legs folded the better to bless.
. . .























. . .
      The silver stairs rise
beside me day and night like Jacob's ladder.
. . .























. . .
The ticketed ones will find the night
      on the other side
sleep where it's not light in possible towns.
I watch over each one rising
in silence on the stairs unsmiling
      and I bless them
and want them not to look at me
and look away from what is not there
like an empty bottle they don't intend to fill.