it's time. It's you

It's the averted eye 

that catches sight of leopards 

slipping through the midnight hedges

toward the house. Cones track

a stab of flashlight, but it's rods

whose illiterate vision of the night

grabs the shadows & explains

what's that beside me or whaat

glides up silent on me from behind—

rods, and wits. Yes

wits, as in, 'I had a feeling.'

I had a feeling you'd call.

I caught a glimpse of someone

in the rush coming out of the subway

and I thought, 'It's time. It's you.'

I was empty when we met, back then.

I know I owe you everything—Kafka, Mary Butts, The Idea of the Holy,

the way to wear scarves,

                to welcome brutal losses,

a talent for courteous silences.

I owe it all to you.  A huge debt.

But I'm not frightened.

The doorbell's broken, the doorman

doesn't know you, the phone's off the hook,

the E-mail's unplugged,

I live on a very high floor,

and I've been sound asleep for hours.

[Marie Ponsot {1921-2019} 'Rods & Cones, & the Statute of Limitations', from Springing]