clutching the soft riding gloves of October.
The wind lies open beside them
like the pages of a gospel they can’t follow.
They have exhausted each other.
They have worn off their gold rings
with tenderness, their soles as the moon floods
their foyers, shuffling it away
through the thresholds.
They are the darkening pastures they are heirs to.
Listen: you must give them
to winter. You wake, and the light’s name
is in ruins. You speak, and the waking
is wilder, the wind
is the melody of disaster
playing itself to completion. The wine
weighs its bottles
in the cellarage, open and no one’s
and turned. Listen: this hour
is the last hour. You must walk out
through the barrenness and falter. You must lie down
in the orchestra of winter.
You must learn to be sung through
as the wind wills: not wholly, not lowly, not risen, not shriven,