Letter In November

Love, the world

Suddenly turns, turns color. The streetlight

Splits through the rat's tail

Pods of the laburnum at nine in the morning.

It is the Arctic,

This little black

Circle, with its tawn silk grasses - babies hair.

There is a green in the air,

Soft, delectable.

It cushions me lovingly.

I am flushed and warm.

I think I may be enormous,

I am so stupidly happy,

My Wellingtons

Squelching and squelching through the beautiful red.

This is my property.

Two times a day

I pace it, sniffing

The barbarous holly with its viridian

Scallops, pure iron,

And the wall of the odd corpses.

I love them.

I love them like history.

The apples are golden,

Imagine it . . .

My seventy trees

Holding their gold-ruddy balls

In a thick gray death-soup,

Their million

Gold leaves metal and breathless.

O love, O celibate.

Nobody but me

Walks the waist high wet.

The irreplaceable

Golds bleed and deepen, the mouths of Thermopylae.