Slow is the hand of the evening as it closes the gates,

slow are the girl's hands as she closes the window,

draws the heavy blinds

and gathers the ashtrays overflowing with stubs.

She draws her face close to the mirror for a minute

"they are late…they are very late”

the clock on the wall ticks in the ordinary way.

Slow are her steps to bed,

cold is the evening,

the touch of the blanket.

She pulls the cover over her body

and leaves the lights on

in all the rooms.

(Translated by Lena Jayyusi and W.S. Merwin)

From Poems of The Pavement (1980)