Autumn. Listen. Crackling. Can you hear that heavy rattling?
It draws near in our clothes, in our hair.
Lice of sound. What is this leprous mumbling?
Child, its the poets outside, their teeth chattering.
The closer the poets get to their moment of dying
The more furiously they groan for the stars.
In the morning mist in which their images melt
The poets freeze in a recognisable jacket.
Hear how feverishly they explain their imminent demise
For their death rattle has to be transparent,
Cause their widow readers to sob.
‘Oh, our ego was too obscure!' they complain.
‘Time required that, polyinterpretable like us!'
And look, they crawl out the swathes of their souls,
Their mouths full of rissoles and prayers for mercy
For their prostates, their plagiaries.
Oh close to death the poets suddenly discover
The calming miracles of gods, aphorisms,
Aspirins, caresses. For the first time their love
Can read something of her love with her lips.
And before the poets, loose winter apples
Rejected by the pickers because undersize
Finally also fall in November
They want to fall for ever comprehensible to the
neighbours. In milkman language, bruised fruit.