A exvolution, as of petals – overblossomed –
hands in prayer that open hingelike, and spread to the winter sun –
what has been swollen ebbing, softing – but still –
alert to the lightest brush – wincing – but refusing to withdraw;
we are still engorged with sun, unwilling,
fatted and feasted and stubborn
in this wane of year and life and blood.
We will not go until we're called: we will not sleep until
God's hand is fairly on our throats, and his thumbs
close both carotids. One more swell and burst of summer;
One more drench of blood, and then we'll go.
Quietly we'll walk the pale blue passages,
the papered walls, extravasated matter, gray and white;
we'll simplify, uncomplicate, and fade
as we go home.