Late in October,
all things pursue ease.
Tinged
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?
