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Poem	1 Only today and just for this minute, when the sunslant finds its true angle, you can see yellow and pinkish leaves spangle our gentle, fluffy tree— suddenly the green summer is momentary... Autumn is my favorite season— why does it change clothes and withdraw? This week the house went on the market— suddenly I woke up among strangers; when I go into a room, it moves with embarrassment, and joins another room. I don't need conversation, but you to laugh with— you and a room and a fire, cold starlight blowing through an open window— whither? 2 After sunfall, heaven is melodramatic, a temporary, puckering, burning green. The patched-up oak and blacker, indelible pines have the indigestible meagerness of spines. One wishes heaven had less solemnity: a sensual table with five half-filled bottles of red wine set round the hectic carved roast— Bohemia for ourselves and the familiars of a lifetime charmed to communion by resurrection— running together in the rain to mail a single letter, not the chafe and cling of this despondent chaff. 3 Yet for a moment, the children could play truant from their tuition. 4 When I look back, I see a collapsing accordion of my receding houses, and myself receding to a boy of twenty-five or thirty, too shopworn for less, too impressionable for more— blackmaned, illmade in a washed blue workshirt and coalblack trousers, moving from house to house, still seeking a boy's license to see the countryside without arrival. Hell? Darling, terror in happiness may not cure the hungry future, the time when any illness is chronic, and the years of discretion are spent on complaint— until the wristwatch is taken from the wrist.
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