September
And the slow drift
Towards destruction,
Leaf-lilt and sky-tilt,
Longing beyond description…
Memory’s mulch
Will make a pretty bonfire.
And, after all, this loneliness
Is what you were born for;
You chose it,
Or it chose you.
Too much the night:
All these things I fear to see,
Fear to know….
Into the top of autumn’s kerotakis
I pour mercury, sulphur and arsenic
And heat them with fire
So that the vapours rise,
Attacking and transmuting the metal at the top,
Then condense and run down the sides
And the cycle recommences.
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