Absence, Mvmt. 2
Each autumn, I allow the sun to make me sad,
turn each of its feeble, yellowed strands about my fingers
so that it might call to mind those rare occasions
on which there is dusk enough in my heart
to bear the hollowness of everything else.
So much amongst those false springs
in Sydney, and now here as I drink
and try too hard to make you laugh
—I miss that. Last night I wore the sound of rain
to bed, despite which I often woke
wrapped in such awful things, and the sky was green
with the smell of unroasted cherries.
So in the absence of the rusted mist
and sharing anything with you today
I allowed myself a little sorrow.