of a crow,
conducting from somewhere
in the gaunt September shadows,
keeps ruthless time
as our daily routine marches
into the ragged and
dwindling scenery.
We are not afraid
to take part in making
this wraithlike elegiac music.
We had rehearsed this;
cessation was expected—
the swelling
of the vines foretold,
the acrid smoke of bonfires
as the cool dusks clamped down
harder and faster,
with the thud of a grand
piano lid.
the acrid smoke of bonfires
as the cool dusks clamped down
harder and faster,
with the thud of a grand
piano lid.
