It is a piece of history only a man with nowhere
to go would prime his schedule by.
Are we its guests, who crowd the shaded gravel of
its six paths, arms reaching, as though after
blind children, to keep them a moment longer from
inevitable harm? Prettier to ascribe a power to its
massive tunelessness, to think its grated welcome
still extends, though distance, silence, perfect
pitch fall down like night to hide it.