Ambulances

Closed like confessionals, they thread / Loud noons of cities, giving back / None of the glances they absorb. / Light glossy grey, arms on a plaque, / They come to rest at any kerb: / All streets in time are visited. // Then children strewn on steps or road, / Or women coming from the shops / Past smells of different dinners, see / A wild white face that overtops / Red stretcher-blankets momently / As it is carried in and stowed, // And sense the solving emptiness / That lies just under all we do, / And for a second get it whole, / So permanent and blank and true. / The fastened doors recede. Poor soul, / They whisper at their own distress; // For borne away in deadened air / May go the sudden shut of loss / Round something nearly at an end, / And what cohered in it across / The years, the unique random blend / Of families and fashions, there // At last begin to loosen. Far / From the exchange of love to lie / Unreachable inside a room / The traffic parts to let go by / Brings closer what is left to come, / And dulls to distance all we are.