He keeps papers in the folds of his cape
Scraps in the folds of his dark mantle
Ciphered and deciphered there in the dark
Carried and inscribed and read and discarded

They leave him and they return
Like friends abandoned restored and forgiving
They speak to him in whispers
As they speak of him when they depart

Everyone listens for the bell at evening
And comes in eagerly to the set table
The stars wink from glasses of wine
And the sighs are steam above the dishes

Strange the connections and the disconnections
And stranger still the stranger at the door
Like one chosen from among a crowd
Like one who walks in so sudden and unexpected

How sad how solitary how old fashioned
How ordered it is how ordinary
Here are the boots by the door in the hall
And here is the mantle on the rack