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.