Lord, this fall day is done as other leaves fell over the sun.

The days are shortening their cloak of light is losing cubits of minutes.

Time lengthens here too, between this thought and the next as

a heron dives into itself giving me this line.

Grace, which the woods are thrusting out - red and gold

At their finger tips, is still hard for me to accept.

I continue to trash at the bank, inches away

from the sunlit lake afflicted by this folly of wanting

to absorb everything: geese, and their reflections floating above,

dusk sky dyeing it's clouds, a girl running in circles.

Prayer, counting beads on rosaries, fasting offer little respite

from such hungers - also add wanting to know what a half hidden tattoo

on a curved spine is to the above list - of being.

The only practise I continue to keep is this vigil at the horizontal bars

of an empty page, as dusk falls - it is getting darker - in what must be a strange insomaniac gratitude.