To Autumn

1On the curt eve of November to make out of patience a new name.Shale-light, long scythes of it,2slicing through the turbid shadow-impressions of failed snow,pauses at certain angles and, inceasing to carve, deepens the engravingsof wind, hoof-prints, the murky aquatintafter-bristle of ferns iced-over andswept into new grooves...3As if justice cannot beserved to principle if the principle alone does not meltunder the surveillance of*force*—skittish, ever-4truant, this autumn wind ever-whetting itself, andthis light transmogrifying itself—a passing bird like a toss of chopped tobacco.And then, the light reconnoitering—5bossed lardy handfuls of itfallen, then cobbled in groups of two or three,among the yew-cones and in the paunchy creaseswhere the sidewalk abandons plot, sagging a little.And that single gob of it—horse-hair grey, crackling likethe fat toe of a god. After the curt melt of6this evening to wake up ina tree, into a grainin the growth in the upper left finger of the smallest branchin the very reddest tree. To sensehandlessness, then the catch-of-flint roil ofstatic—a canopy of hands. To feel my handstighten—lean—then loosen—and thento feel slenderin an unloosened light. How can one batethe tongue then, how can one judge what to savor andwhat to let turn frail andincendiary? And the light? How can one servejustice to a principleif body is one and the lolling limber light anotherthat lacquers it?7The dead have their lightless islandsand we, each new second,use that second to shuck off a secondself. All the while the small moldedbuhl leaves scattermildly, settling in our hair like cut-out lacunas fromsome fluted elemental music, inflaking November-light.I would not want, I think, in thisporcelain-light, to suffer the suddenness ofanother’s skin—to sensea shade as treacle, grey, curried, or white asleaves. There are still8the unraveling sprigs ofmy topcoat to contend with. And thenthe theater tonight.