Monday, October 25, 2021


Late in October, 
all things pursue ease.

yellowish, moldy, 
and brittle—all matter, 
all space making peace.

All of us, too
are seeking release;
All at once, 

our eyes, 
knees, and speech 
will grow weak.

What we loved most—
what we sought 
(so we think) 

from the world 
more than pleasure 
or experience—

was security:
a clean embrace, order 
in the storm, shelter 

from the subsequent 
wreck. But now, 
we haven't got 

the spirit left 
to wonder: 
what sort of terrible 

miracle comes next? 
What summer child 
could be born 

of this marriage 
between solemnity 
and death?