II

I got up this morning in old
and worn out dreams. My feet
are cold and the morning light is
painful and ludicrous. If I could
personify the night without embarrassment,
I would no doubt call on it. I could then
exorcise this dawn with a few
strokes of a ball-point pen.

I go to the window and watch
the empty street. The autumn
light is cool and grey, the
leaves have turned from green to
gold and brown, and a delicate mist
hangs from the black wet branches.

I turn from the window and go
back to bed, light a cigarette and
stare into space while the radio
marks time. Somewhere in the mist
and trees, somewhere in the cool grey
light and the autumn air, there is something
precious I have lost and I shall
grow old trying to remember it.