He doffs his own abysmal light
in petty streets of thieves.
He passes by a horse
wrapped in pure velvet.
He scrapes his nail on carriages
that may be made of gold,
and everywhere, in doors,
old men with helmets.
The days are fading in and out,
the air, the crippled leaves,
and everything alive is moving slowly
toward places where the body disappears,
the eye perceives,
the shadows here are somewhat less than holy.