A Dying

I

It is autumn and 
the pain is 
departing. 

The trees still stand 
though the leaves drop 
one by one 

outside a window which 
you hardly see 
for the kindly morphine.

Pain is the worst 
for it reminds us of 
the flesh, the soul 

humming in space, 
sparking 
brambles in one place. 

The trees still stand 
however the autumn phones ring 
with inquiries, 

however the feet walk 
quietly about the house 
and the bell is disconnected. 

Autumn is the time 
for the calm 
disavowal of will 

and the thorny circle 
about the forehead 
to fade 

among the berries, 
the tiny churchbells 
which are now in color.

All is picture, 
passive photograph, 
portrait, 

the abstract 
glaciers of pillows. 
Let your purse 

hold its last coins. 
You are ferried now 
across a loch 

without reflection.