September

1.

There the September garden.

Why do I not leap light

to its bright quivering among the branches?

Why do I not perish in its swaying slumber?

This the September garden.

How do I stand still

against its trembling?

What is it

that awakens in us, me and the garden,

something like words?

Would this air speak?

Had we, the garden and I,

not disintegrated so!

2.

September garden is a day

I put together as I please.

I don’t assemble

so much as perish in it,

between what fades

and what takes form.

I abandon myself to the garden.

In a place where there is no day

all ceases, and nothing is left behind

but words.

In the garden of September

nothing is, but everything

speaks.

3.

The garden of September comes to me

and dozes on my sight,

trembling with fatigue

in the small sky,

that which rapturously glitters

on the green leaves,

a sky that drags its robe

over the trees.

September comes to me.

I sit up and face it

with dreamful things:

a book, a pack of cigarettes,

a cup of tea, and a bit of evening

scattered,

surprised and bewildered by the cold.

I face it free and transparent.

I rise to it.

The garden of September,

woven of imaginings,

a temptation like all beginnings.

(9/7/1991)