We Sleep a Little and We Live
It's some day today, isn't it?
Someone's birthday or deathday,
yes that day, today is an ecstatically sad day.
Christopher, don't you know
we could fall in love so fast
if you only meet me for a drink at six?
All my friends are broke and lonely.
They're smoking now in their leather jackets
trying to say something about kissing
in a poem or a novel maybe.
Except my friend Rachel who doesn't smoke
and writes about paintings
and beautiful things—Rachel!
Don't you know you are
my favorite person in the world.
Not any other world but this one,
which we know so well because we're in it.
Yes, the winter's fast approaching
and on this, the saddest day,
Fifth Avenue is cold and crying
like the blond poet sipping his coffee
outside New York University.
Why should he listen to the man who says
he has no reason to be sad because he's young?
It's some day today, some place
this place we live in.
I'll never get over the fact
that the buildings all light up at night,
and the night comes every night
and without regret we let it go.
We sleep a little and we live.
That's what we do.