John Ashbery
I
A novice was sitting on a cornice
High over the city. Angels
Combined their prayers with those
Of the police, begging her to come off it.
One lady promised to be her friend.
"I do not want a friend," she said.
A mother offered her some nylons
Stripped from her very legs. Others brought
Little offerings of fruit and candy,
The blind man all his flowers. If any
Could be called successful, these were,
For that the scene should be a ceremony
Was what she wanted. "I desire
monuments," she said. "I want to move
Figuratively, as waves caress
The thoughtless shore. You people I know
Will offer me every good thing
I do not want. But please remember
I died accepting them." With that, the wind
Unpinned her bulky robes, and naked
As a roc's egg, she drifted softly downward
Out of the angels' tenderness and the minds of men.
II
Much that is beautiful must be discarded
So that we may resemble a taller
Impression of ourselves. Moths climb in the flame,
Alas, that wish only to be the flame:
They do not lessen in our stature.
We twinkle under the weight
Of indiscretions. But how could we tell
That of the truth we know, she was
The somber vestment? For that night, rockets sighed
Elegantly over the city, and there was feasting:
There is so much in that moment!
So many attitudes toward that flame,
We might have soared from earth, watching her glide
Aloft, in her peplum of bright leaves.
But she, of course, was only an effigy
of indifference, a miracle
Not meant for us, as the leaves are not
Winter's because it is the end.
