Nov 132013
 
I arise from bed without any book
And look out,
And turn the silvered pages of my world.

August's gilding's almost gone, garcon.
The milk stales;
The after-breakfast plates rattle abstractly.

Our blue sky whitens toward September incrementally.
Incrementally, Mardee,
Our bones remember winter's shrunken edge.

Today the sun's bald pat of butter's blancher
Than yesterday,
And yesterday's is blancher than the day before's.

Summertime unravels toward autumn's disorder
Leaf by leaf.
Tattered sounds louden in the morning chill.

When summer's robe lies crumpled, what remains?
Pray, Mardee, of all
Those citron hours, what bright rind abides?

I am like one whose misty death, inevitable, arrives
As vapor pours,
As a footnote arrives after revelation.

(Is not this orange globe, this sun, here and now,
More to me
Than the inoperant orb of distant November?)

Sorry, the comment form is closed at this time.