Certainty
Slow is the hand of evening as it 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 the body

and leaves the lights on in all the rooms.

Exception
All of them arrive

river and train

sound and ship

light and letters

the telegrams of consolation

the invitations to dinner

the diplomatic pouch

the space ship

they all arrive/all but my step toward my own country..