in the dark

A single cricket stirs.
There is no sign for sense
but this slight scrape of cadence
in small hours.

Such complete dark is simple –
no outlines, no details.
Somewhere an earthworm feels
wings vibrate in the temple.

Dear Death

in whose august

milieu there are no throes

that winnow breath

through dust

– disclose

to me somehow

your undisturbance

while things fall apart.

Let me borrow now

some silence

from my stock-still heart.

Whole fields are foxfur dun:

stalks burdened with vermillion dust,

the calyx gone to rust,

bowed underneath the moth-

weight of October sun.

Summer was just a guest.

Along her slant egress

each reed leans toward the south.