WHEN HALF THE TIME THEY DON'T KNOW THEMSELVES...

by John Ashbery

       Old cathedrals, old markets, good and firm things
       And old streets, one always feels intercepted
       As they walk quickly past, no nonsense, cabbages
       And turnips, the way they get put into songs:

       One needn't feel offended
       Or shut out just because the slow purpose
       Under it is evident,
       Because someone is simply there.

       Yet it's a relief to look up
       To the moist, imprecise sky,
       Thrashing about in loneliness,
       Inconsolable...

       There has to be a heart to this.
       The words are there already.
       Just because the river looks like it's flowing backwards
       Doesn't mean that motion doesn't mean something,
       That it's incorrect as a metaphor.

       And the way stones sink,
       So gracefully,
       Doesn't rob them of the dignity
       Of their cantankerous gravity.

       They are what they are and what they seem.
       Maybe our not getting closer to them
       Puts some kind of shine on us
       We didn't consent to,
       As though we were someone's car:
       Large, animated, calm.