Feeling this and those last lines, especially.
New England 1967
The forms in my dreams have changed;
now there are red houses side by side
and the delicate bronze of the leaves
and chaste winter and pious wood.
As on the seventh day, the world
is good. In the twilight there persists
what’s almost non-existent, bold, sad,
an ancient murmur of Bibles, war.
Soon (they say) the first snow will fall
America waits for me on every street,
but I feel in the decline of evening
today so long, and yesterday so brief.
Buenos Aires, I go journeying
your streets, without time or reason.