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I love autumn and the shadow of meaning, and I like
in autumn a light mystery of diaphanous handkerchiefs,
like poetry in the burst after birth, dazzled
by the incandescent night or the dimness of light.
It crawls and doesn’t find the names for things.

I like a light rain that wets only the distant others:
Once, in a similar autumn,
a wedding parade of ours crossed
ways with one of the funerals, and the living celebrated
the dead, the dead the living.