In the Fall
“You’re not going in there – ?” I turned but there was no passage on waking.
Dogs prostrate under the table, mud dry on their flanks. Milk in the pan of onions.
The change to schist along that road, earth in the broken asphalt, gates or doors, mainverblessness, lapidary bees in the walls, stones fallen short of the swollen stream north from where it joins the sea and crosses my mouth.
In the bookshop, at the counter, the man at the register adds up the cost, and you, “Don’t you want Apollinaire’s letters? You with your French tongue –” And Minor Poets of the Caroline Period (3 vols.).
What to think of while all the while thinking only of your hand thinking.