The first dead leaves lie like sea urchins
browned on the asphalt drive.
It’s got to be October,
Slayer of living things, refrigerator of memory.
Next to the wilted lettuce, next to the Simone Weil,
Our lives are shoved in,
barely visible, but still unspoiled.
Our history is the history of the City of God.
What’s-to-Come is anybody’s guess.
Whatever has given you comfort,
Whatever has rested you,
Whatever untwisted your heart
is what you will leave behind.
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