Words

by David Constantine

Words, dear words, bide with me a while yet, I beg you
Don’t leave me hearing nothing but the noise
Be there, and I do not mean like staff
In a tyrannous office at beck and call told what to do
And quickly—not that, nothing like that, only let me know
By a sign now and then that you’re there
And I’ll bide my time, I’ll be quiet, I’ll listen
I’ll not snatch and grab, I’ll be listening out for you
For your being there, for your trusting yourselves into my hearing
And never—it goes without saying—
Into my ownership, words, free as the fowls of the air
Now and then come near
I’ll be quiet, dear whisperers, visitors into my dreams
Let me live a while longer in the hope you bring me
Words . . .