It is autumn again, which has left It’s fingerprints on the avenues - Billowing red lava in the rain.

Nights now will lengthen and so Against the stirrings of cold I shall again attempt to insulate myself

With crowds. Bookstores, bars, Cinemas and churches shall become Familiar with my faceless presence Why does the inventible seem to be

Harder to accept with every passing year? This chill, which never left, makes itself felt, Stabbing needles into the bones. Time spurts Out, smooth sand dripping from the holes.

So here I sit again knitting together, With unsteady hands, eyes elsewhere Searching for fire – even Dante’s kind, From these lines culled from Basho, Rilke, Milosz, Dostoevsky and so on A tattered, unfinishable overcoat.

He spends the afternoon Feeding the fishes – long, Snake like, breadcrumbs.

The fragrance of ovens Is left on his fingers and The taste of wheat

Becomes flesh of his tongue. Which he arches back, making Ineffectual noises to keep from

Drowning in the bile rising steadily, A Noah’s deluge of squirming ghosts, Silvery innards, bloody gills, dead eyes.

…

And so an afternoon has passed, Hunched over a gasping mouth, Scattering crumbs, fistfuls, as time Turns on inconspicuous gases in These chambers, these autumn days.