What Do You Hear Now, Walt Whitman? (4)

part 4 of extended poem

4

Hanging under the dreary moon,
the cats shout shallow like the water squirms
under our kicking feet and connected hands.

Up our hill, cars flying by,
lights blazing and engines blaring.

The cold wanders and wraps us together;
I am home.

The darkness scatters and tempts us,
my hand shakes, your hair shines in the moon light,
the water waits and waits,
the chill air grazes its touch against your back and smiles.
We're the summer ending,
the slow glaze and fall haze and long winter ahead;
we're the beginning and the end,
we're always falling,
always alive and awake,
always fresh and shining like a new day;
we're the shallow shell surrounding the evening,
we're the empty bed clamoring and calling,
the torn and weary night eyes,
we're everything they'll never get back;
all alone fleeing home after a long day of work.

We never sleep,
we see the navy sky as a sign and wait and watch,
we smile as the new sun smothers us,
holding hands and never tired.

I never want to drive a car on the highway up the hill,
never flee for home every night.

This is ours,
slowly fading into the lake,
holding hands,
never growing old or tired,
never falling to sleep or waking up again.