Move quick, I'm stalling, come on in.
It's a poem called "October."
I lived in New Jersey for several months once
and this poem was written in New Jersey, which
is a different October from out here.
I assume there's something about this.
I got a letter once, I get very few letters about my poems,
but--
and this actually was a postcard,
which is even more in line.
People ask you why-- who you write for from time to time?
Well, I write for Sister Martha Reeves.
[LAUGHTER]
And whoever--
[LAUGHTER]
--she is and no matter what anybody who writes tells you,
they write for Sister Martha Reeves too
and this is what she says, "I've been carrying
around your poem, asterisk, October,
ever since it was published blank, blank several years
ago."
And an asterisk says, "In a succession of wallets.
I want it with me if I get run over or something."
[LAUGHTER]
Bless you, Sister, because that's
who we write for, you want it--
somebody who wants to go up with your poem
in their pocket, that's who you write to.
And this is called, "October."
The leaves fall from my fingers, cornflowers
scattered across the field like stars, like smoke stars,
by the train tracks, the leaves in a drift
under the slow clouds and the nine steps to heaven,
the light falling in great sheets through the trees,
sheets almost tangible.
The transfiguration will start like this,
I think, breathless, quick blade through the trees,
something with red colors falling away from my hands,
the air beginning to go cold.
And when it does, I'll rise from this tired body,
a blood-knot of light, ready to take the darkness in.
Or for the wind to come and carry me, bone by bone,
through the sky, its wafer a burn on my tongue,
its wine deep forgetfulness.