On Stasis Street the hill climbs steep.
People walk through walls and sleep.
Houses rise syllable on syllable out of sight:
we hear them slide into the cup of night
and night slides downhill to pool at the base.

At dusk a strain of music spins
away from the men who sing of their sins.
And who can say when the singing begins?

Currently abroad is a common lie:
that we go to Stasis Street when we die.
That the streets are paved with broken glass,
and we pray for the cup, though it will pass.
This is not, however, the truth of the place:

We walk there now in sleep, and when
we count the songs by eight or ten
we know the singing will never end.

July 28, 1976

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