This is a poem called "November."
It's a poem about the turning of the seasons in a way.
"November."
"In the garden insects in carriages,
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.
Late winter.
To learn to love again, the angel detaches her wings
and sleeps.
This is the coldest night.
The self-rising over and over again, walls the same,
bed the same, ashes in the great.
Outside the door, a cart without a horse
weights with such patients, such abandon."