What can I tell you? Everything’s been locked up
for the night, I couldn’t get it for you
if I wanted to. But there must be some way—
it’s drizzling, the lamps along the path are weeping,
wanting to show you this tremendous thing,
boxed in forever, always getting closer.
—John Ashbery, from “Honored Guest,” Your Name Here: Poems (Farrar, Straus, and Giroux, 2000)