Jan 142015
 
Not until the September is past
And the grave dead all lie, unshakled, unburied,
Alone in the frost's mouth
(All dying done, all birthing begun)
And every crooked, ear-marked child is led,
By the dimming blood of a failing hand,
To play away from the clock's haunts

And stars are incited to shrink again
The cragging moon's corruptible sphere
To less than a pinnacle's pinched inch of sky
(Not until the September is past)
And every weed grows down to die
Up where the miracle dead were tossed
In a frozen field gone over to snow

And the cold wind in a cold throat like glue,
Dying of wanting; and the blossomless trees
Lift their skirts to let me fondle
The bark-notched knees of autumn's parts,
Sold old home of my father's wants,
Will I catch cure in the cuckold wind
For inextricable laughter and hate.


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