When I look at the field it is still
the field of possibility—
frost comes, and the heat lifts
to see it melt, to see the heat
of the sun persist
even though winter is on the way.
I am more optimistic those days
when the weather
is unseasonable, Indian summer, this
to me is the dregs
of a thing, it is a wedding ring
in the mind after
a sexual dream. The point
of sex is for both
parties to perform the same
activity, according to the poet
who is afraid of death
the way he is afraid of the sun.
But he sees himself
and his object running
through a gate, not a field.
The Kenyon Review