‘I have not met myself and I get worse
At trying to do that.’
I’m looking into the mirror that faces the window
in which everything flows back and forth, in and out,
one and another. I feel looked at by my own reflection
so I go out and look at a tree. Before I looked at it
it could have been anything. Now it’s tree-and-me,
Back inside, I turn on the radio. Turn it off.
I’d emptied the garden. Now I inspect the last
green tomatoes on a table covered with squash.
A crow calls through the glass. Another replies.
I rouse the dog, turn the radio back on. Gluck,
‘Dance of the Blessed Spirits’? I open the door.
Late autumn sun floods in. How far can it go?
Everywhere, until the moon is up, flinging bits
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