i love the crisp whiskey crackle love the empty space so far filled with waves of wind, it is time for centipedes to die and tiny things to curl like seeds below the soil it is time for final toil: racking chest-heaves, the bringing in of squash and last rot tomatoes - of apples in the basement, some seeping and others
openly weeping but so many hard and still as stones and as silent pursed around their bitter seeds of twigs and a sad violent circle of feathers where that big orange tom made to dance with a robin (he danced with my cat and she was all holes around her big calico sweater neck: Alice never loses, but age is in her teeth and in the sometime stumble since her stroke -
she doesn't get stuck-wink any more, but blood bloomed brown in one green shining and for a while she was a kitten again, mewing even now she is a season older and maybe sometimes she loses. I am losing time every day - how to keep up! I am assumed to be preparing this mortal volume for the forensic apparatchik of publishers, supposed to be polishing my own teeth - but there again is that quiet cry
a few sharp grey hairs in brown have become a veritable dust-storm up above; loss, and the thinning not confined to hair (or mind) skin and tendon have quit their strength, put down quickness and begun the tremulous process of old age: i walked past a leaf, red-green maple on wet dirt and remembered a truth: in death, maximize both time (by twisting and turning, no other way through the wind but) and display: with colour, lad, with colour.