the few ornaments relics 
of a dim plurality.

There will be no callers, 
no letters from the black and white world today:

nothing to do tonight but relax 
a febrile grip, watch one more fire die.

A wild man, the gentlest of killers, 
he awaits his release calmly:

no bones to pick with fate, no real axe 
to grind with eternity. 

This slow season of falling and fading,
of ripeness, decay and remembrance
amid the mists of a year’s conscience,
I walk again the mossed ways of loving:

softly, gladly through this one night’s grace,
this hushed moon and memory ghosted time.