of silent twilight—that abyss
into which all our soiled
yesterdays blow—
each squirrel
perched on his pole like
a sentinel—like the king of all
the untold animal species;
and each dove, a bust
of Palace on her throne,
sitting naked and noble
in her nest of maple branches;
and me
at the window, trying
to let the day go.
C'est la vie.
Comme ci, comme ça.
Sig transit gloria mundi.
Que sera, sera.
Those are things
my old proponents
used to say. But
to give a thing away,
that must mean
you used to own it.
