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.