October: Sorrow Pantoum

 
That light in late afternoon this time of year—
that brassy note in the trees before the sun
    disappears—
It's hard to believe how much has changed  
              or how little: history of our miseries in this world.

That brassy note in the trees before the sun disappears:
but what did they see of the light before it fell?
How little your worth, history of your miseries in this world.
             First it mellows your heart then floods it with dread.
 
O what did they see of the light before they fell:
the child in the park, the woman asleep in her bed?
Their mellow hearts notwithstanding, flooded with dread.
             The ones who call out, gasping for breath in the street

like the child in the park, the woman asleep in her bed—
It's hard to believe that nothing has changed.
What new body calls out, gasping for breath in the street?  
            The light a knife in late afternoon, this time of year.

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