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 plaintive and large tear.
While their hands are powerless. And narrow.
But once the stars turn back in 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. Candles in bronze holders
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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