And the other women. Timid swallows — — —
From the first September frosts, they wrap themselves
in woeful shawls. White silk fringes reach the ground.
They quietly climb down to a pond and read verses.
The pond — a large and sorrowful tear.
While their hands are powerless. And narrow.
But once the stars turn back with sharp angles. Then
they cinch waist with sash and dance, wearing out
their pointed slippers. In one night.

At dawn white-haired dogs lie down on steps
and falling dark moths fill the fire. Like leaves.
Again they wrap themselves in enormous shawls —
        __________
After that, advent. Advent.
Distant churches murmur. In bronze holders
candles shed tears.
You must pierce fanged dragons with spears
and not lead — ever again into temptation.
God’s face is inscrutable. Like a mask.

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