put the water to
boil on the bloody stove,
and while it heats I'll construct
my own innocuous identity
my own morning mask,
there are gray skies, no
more gray Octobers tho;
and
I'm here, already
missing October, Whitman's
October and Wolfe's and
Jack's and my October, I watch it
drifting south on the gentle,
muddy, earthy brown Potomac,
erasing whatever thoughts
I've had, whatever memories
I've tried to keep,
I find the road toward my
end bittersweet and I don't think
I've cared enough,
how many Octobers have I watched
on mornings just like this?
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