The Song, by Stephen Dunn

Late at night a song

breaks off, unfinished,

that rose from the street

outside your apartment,

not a cry but a song,

and something you recognize

as sadness

comes over you.

The street is empty

when you look.

The sadness, too,

is not locatable,

a referent lost somewhere

like an address book

from one of your other lives

with a page missing,

names that must

have mattered once.

A woman was singing

or perhaps a man

with the kind of voice

that has so much woman in it

you should fear for his safety.

The song was familiar,

and it strikes you now

that maybe you were dreaming

or even, yes, it was you

yourself singing.

All night long you wait

for it to start again.

There’s only the sound

of cars, and, nearer,

though you can’t get that near,

your heart.

You’ve faked so many feelings

in your time you wonder

if it could have been

the ghost of faked feelings

offering you an authentic sadness,

a gift. But you’re so tired,

so on that edge

between clarity and silliness,

you might think anything.

Dawn comes with its intermittency,

its tempo that hasn’t

yet lengthened into traffic.

You haven’t slept, you swear it,

though you know

when it comes to that

most people are mistaken.

From “Loosestrife” by Stephen Dunn. (W.W. Norton: $19, 96 pp.) . Copyright 1996 Reprinted by permission.