While the last poem eats up the moment
the maker stands up drained from the table
he cleans his carving knife and looks out the window

on the flagstones the leaves breathing their last
relieved of their summer, the angel in the wind crouching
in the eternal weeds waiting for time

so it’s a peaceful evening of wars and farewells
world, truth and love comprising invulnerably
their iron letters

and now for something edible, blood pudding white bread
and then to sleep at last, black’s in style –