Photo: Joe Dixey
At midnight, one midnight in ’72,
I wandered the city with nothing to do.
I wandered the city as if I were dreaming,
The blood in my temples insistently drumming.
The doing of nothing took most of the night,
So slow was my progress downwind of the light.
So slow was my progress I thought I was dreaming,
The blood in my temples insistently drumming.
With nothing to guide me or show me my way,
I knew where I was as if walking by day.
I knew where I was, but I must have been dreaming,
The blood in my temples insistently drumming.
As if an idea had a substance to clutch
I might have been holding you, warm to the touch.
I might have been holding you rather than dreaming,
The blood in my temples insistently drumming.
Bewildered by doubt as my fancy became,
I thought I could hear you saying my name.
I thought I could hear you, but I was dreaming,
The blood in my temples insistently drumming.
In separate places and separate hearts
We blended our voices, exact counterparts.
We blended our voices into our dreaming,
The blood in our temples insistently drumming.
Our throats made the sounds of the pleasures they lacked,
Unspeakable vices delivered from tact—
Unspeakable vices of which we were dreaming,
The blood in our temples insistently drumming.
At midnight, one midnight a long time ago,
I wrote you these verses, but you didn’t know.
I wrote you these verses as if you were dreaming,
The blood in your temples insistently drumming.
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