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Summer is waning from the gold and from the copper
and violet
of leaf fall in gardens, and clouds at twilight
that drown in their own blood.
And the garden empties, only a few stragglers,
a few…
You, my dear, will survive me and remember.
How could it be otherwise?
—From a letter
Old people? What can you write about old people?
They barely feel anything!
—From a conversation
Take me in under your wing
and be unto me mother and sister
and let your breast be my head’s rest,
home of my lonely prayers.
At the hour of mercy, at sunset,
list and I’ll reveal my sorrow’s root…