Listening to a psalm, In Sanskrit, at noon In order to wake up From hung over sleep – It appears as if he has Been asleep for days, Been walking for nights.

His head slumped on the desk, The disheveled room, the dried Out tongue, the caked sweat All smelling of alcohol, Thinking this is how An exile loses his gods.

My dear are The first maple leaf That fell this autumn

And which is now Suspended from a thread Of spider silk

Spun between two trees Deep in my bone forest.

Because you ask For my poems with More faithfulness than I write them – none now In two weeks.

Just because in your absence - You have always been absent - Between me and drunkenness The only defense I can raise Is this canticle of words.

And because you happen To be far away – perhaps Walking now in the sun, Perhaps thinking of me, A man haunted by night.

Also because your presence For me, happens to be as Ephemeral as the harvest Moon shining, even as it is Sinking in this autumn sky.

Because I simply must.