And as usual, early summer seems already to hold, inside it,the split fruit of late fall, those afternoons we’llsoon enough lie down in, their diminished colors, the part no onecomes for. I’m a man, now; I’ve seenplenty of summers, I shouldn’t besurprised—why am I?
As if everything hadn’t all along been designed—I include myself—to disappear eventually.
Meanwhile, how the wind sometimes makesthe slenderest trees, still young, bend over
makes me think of knowledge conqueringsuperstition, I can almostbelieve in that—until the trees, like
fear, spring back. Then a sadsort of quiet, just after, as between two people who have finally realizedthey’ve stopped regretting the same things. It’s like they’ve neverknown each other. Yet even now, waking, they insist they’ve wokenfrom a dream they share, forgetting all over againthat every dreamis private……
