October 21. In the sunshine. The voices of the world becoming quieter and fewer.
In every parting there is an image of death.
The heavy narcotic
of the changing season.
Count up the almonds,
Count what was bitter and kept you waking,
Count me in too:
I sought your eye when you glanced up and no one would see you,
I spun that secret thread
Where the dew you mused on
Slid down to pitchers
Tended by a word that reached no one’s heart.
There you first fully entered the name that is yours,
you stepped to yourself on steady feet,
the hammers swung free in the belfry of your silence,
things overheard thrust through to you,
what’s dead put it’s arm around you too,
and the three of you walked through the evening.
Render me bitter.
Number me among the almonds.