The hour is tired…

The hour is tired as if itwere time for bed;

and like a foundling in a white nightshirt only,

I sit and write in the voidas if upon a blackboard:

nothing matters, nothing matters.

If the black cat shouldleap among the platters, lap up

what’s left of the white milk, and overturn theplatters,

I’d close my eyes for sleep, I’d sleep forever—

nothing matters, nothing matters.