Bushels of light from the electric maples
float in the underpass.
Night enters the cemetery like a spade.
Only dawn has promised
erasure, blessed erasure
of all memories of this corner.
We have the look, we all
have the look of people who are waiting.
We eat from a bowl of sirens.
Only the long face
of night is not yet mottled,
the white face of night.
It is the night's last blessing.
Erasure, the long-promised
erasure will soon occur.
Martin TURNER
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/lines-for-alexander-blok/
