There is a moment.

There is a moment.

And in between - there is that.

There is a voice, dipped in uselessness, it still calls,
it said 'Ulysses', it said 'Ithaca',
but I no longer know what it says.

There's the sea, definite, impregnable, and the years,
they are there, but what the years say the sea can't say,
there's the rise and fall of a splinter - Ithaca -
and a useless voice - my voice - which raises itself
to its feet, addresses the audience,
and goes hoarse - there's pandemonium -
and in between the pandemonium and my voice,
there is the deep cool silence of -

I have come back to the words that I love.

There is a moment.

There is a moment.

And in between - there is that.

Even just one splinter of that, one splinter of a wreck -
and all the rest, invaluable - all the rest, scattered -
there is that, there is all of that,
airliners, and miles which rise to their feet like a crowd,
and stamp, and applaud -
just one splinter of that, it could be Christ, it could be taxes,
we don't hear, we're buffeted among the audience -
and in between the sea and the years - Ulysses -
there is the long, slow rift in -

And once, the moment itself rose like a crowd...

It grew hushed and expectant, as if someone
were about to get to their feet, and begin an address.

There is a moment.

There is a moment.

And then you come back to me.

There is a moment, there is pandemonium;
there's unravelling, and the blackness of spring -
there are queues, marching; spinning; bobbing;
there is the rise of a wave, which has taken so long 
to be born - so infinitely long -
and which is so infinitely delicate, even though it's a thug -
baby spray at its tip as it forms, infant fingers,
cobweb strands, mist, and then the tons rolling
an army of molecules, and its death,
which sounds like Hussar -
but where it curled, it was like vaporised pearl -
and where the wind blew it, splintered it,
it was quiet, peaceful -
as if a crowd had dispersed, and all the tear gas 
had been carried away -
there is that, there is all of that,
and in between the wave rising and the wave falling
there is the useless, beautiful cry of -

But I'm not speaking of that.

You come back to me.
You have been away for so long.

I have come back to the words I love.
I've been away for so long.

And the night is rising, baby spray at its tip,
a curl of infant fingers but, even now, infinitely delicate -
you need to be very quiet, attentive,
to feel the weight behind it -
and the stars, and the night which rolls within the night -
you want to say, hush.

I have come back to the words that I love.
Now, for the last time, I must raise my voice
to say the thing which might be worthy of you.

It is, literally, the last effort I'll make.
There's a moment, a final moment,
when this effort is required, or no other human voice
will ever be lifted again.

I have come back to you. Now the audience
rises to address the speaker,
and the speaker must listen.