Even when walking in a park, the trees mock softly;
and taking your hand across city blocks to squeeze
some mercy from a dry and ragged sky, I understand
that still this autumn nothing has been completed.
Dry pages fall from the trees, their readership completed.
Even when I find myself in the dark mirror you softly
hold to me in beds, I cannot fail to understand
the argument of failure. At dawn, the heart’s squeeze
tightens on despair and you think it will not squeeze
again nor loosen till you have completed
one more day without gain. I did not understand
that we could be so strong and lose the world so softly.
You cry softly by the fire: tears squeeze out onto your hand.
Still this autumn nothing’s been completed; still I understand.