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.