"November."
"In the garden, insects encourages little widows
sleeping.
Inside the stone, we will be without sensation, uterine,
subordinate.
Here is the wounded planet rolling, the last imperceptible
waning of the moon over the damp yard.
It is always behind you though even birth
is no real precedent.
A man walking slowly enough up the steps to the heart
will see his own heels shining before him.
That is what he asks for, all he can imagine, and no one
to roll away the stone."