There beside the clapping
of autumn feet, the uncombed
grass has become a
bit wild at the edges.

Having nothing else to do,

the light
is a crisp explosion on
soft, orange, ochre,
vermilion trees.

And the spinal back-capped nightlamp
with its clear, bitten glass
is not yet on,

just idle,

idle against the vacuum of
rushing wind
as on the road cars turn and
return from some place.

But on this stepping-stone path,
it seems to be
correct; the disguised reluctance
of this sour season,
avoiding some bitter cross
of winter, trying to keep

some emphasis
on its mood, stiff and changeless.