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The leaves are a thing to lose,
The lawn of yellow points.
Un-image a measure of days,
A season distempered both
In time's gray subsequence
And a separation all-ordained, unseen.

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In the autumn street of leaves
'Dressed, posted, returned--
Nature's speculation's done.
Hued brevity now, underfoot slid, wind moved
As we, unvolitioned in love's season.

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Dawn's light solitude
In comfort chill and robed thought
And spotted pane accompany,
Turns isolation's stiff yeared
Unbellied cat in hall darkness,
And blind lashed, streaked and dusty sill.

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In approximation,
The moment rounded with a scud
Of low concern and cloud--
The misfiled, the blotted
Sun running in monochrome seams,
A striated score to this arc of day.
.
A plainsong of air, of nothing
In silence, and surprise.

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