I
look out through the open window – watch
whatever
current swatch of planetary influence I’m subject to: imbibe its layers of translucence
through the leaves – listen to the hockey sticks
and playground yells of kids in games across
the street – sweet blameless light of cold and warm
September – final breath of month exonerating me –
forgiving me carte blanche for everything I’ve
ever done – consigning me to an inevitable cloud
of unremembered history – a mystery of coolness
causing anguish of such strange delicious power –
as if to feel it is to know how long the flower
has before it falls. October’s coming in with blank
New York indifference: and the inference is:
I’d better let it. I loaf upon the sofa – aimless brushes
of the air rush in – tender bursts exciting something
like a thirst: therein resides the anguish, riding
winds like an apocalyptic horseman. But nothing’s dire.
Just another message down the cosmic wire –
from my father and my mother and my brother.
.
