The threshold you are tempting toward,
though but a way without a door, it is not for you!
You have been invited here, but there was a set place,
a set time: when I suffered.
Where were you then?
You are too late; your plate is washed and dried,
your chair pushed in, your bed fulfilled.
I am asleep now. In the morning light, whom will I love?
Go away, little thing.
Take your dreams and cool night sweats,
your too-large voice, into the bottomless long avenue
of you, your coming too late to me.
My lover holds me, resting.
The doorway without door is shut.
I know the things you show are enticing, but your very appearance
repulses me like a sermon from the lips of a hypocrite,
like promises from a drunkard's mouth.
I have nothing to do with your hellfire!
Burn some other bright place dark as windswept ashes.
I have left your flame, scarred over,
healed without you.
I will not play your riddles,
you are too weak an instrument
for my ancient tune.