The spring-it had simply been you

The spring-it had simply been you, And so, to a certain extent, The summer; but autumn-this scandalous blue Of wallpaper? Rubbish and felt? They lead an old horse to the knacker's yard. His wistful, short-breathing nostrils Are listening: wet camomile and moss, Or maybe a whiff of horsemeat. Imbibe with your lips and the blaze of your eyes The transparent days' tear-stained vagueness, Like the drift of an empty bottle of scent, Its nostalgic lingering fragrance. To sleep, not to argue. Despairingly To sleep. Not to open the window Where last summer, in frenzy, July Was burning and glowing like jasper, And melting the glass, and was pairing The same crimson dragonflies, Which now, on their nuptial beds, Are deader and more transparent Than crumbled dry cigarettes. How sleepy and chilly are windows In the twilight hours of frost. Dry vitriol oil. At the bottom, A gnat, and expired wasps. How draughty the north is. How ruffled And sulky... O whirlwind, drive, Feel, search all the crannies and hollows, Find me my song alive!