The poem
Another year gone, leaving everywhere its rich spiced residues: vines, leaves,
the uneaten fruits crumbling damply in the shadows, unmattering back
from the particular island of this summer, this NOW, that now is nowhere
except underfoot, moldering in that black subterranean castle
of unobservable mysteries - roots and sealed seeds and the wanderings of water. This
I try to remember when time's measure painfully chafes, for instance when autumn
flares out at the last, boisterous and like us longing to stay - how everything lives, shifting
from one bright vision to another, forever in these momentary pastures.