These ironed sheets are cold. A while ago
After I put out the lamp I went to the window
To wait, and leaned on the chilly frame. A cloud
Rolled out of the garden, over the stubbly field
And up to the half moon, covering it. So darkness
Fell. Therefore I watched for you in the blankness
Outside. Then imagined you. The sill was wet
And the screen had caught little wet drops of light.
Later, rain began splattering the ruddy leaves
Of the streetlit maple and quietly spilling through needles
Of the spruce. I finally got into bed. By tomorrow
All the leaves will be down, underfoot and sodden. Below
The front windows the cars pass and pass again.
I need sleep. I count them pass-habit, to listen
Strictly-after the hissing approach on the wet street
The sibilant passing-and to watch the headlight
That flashes across the ceiling. You may be driving
Fast on some turnpike this rainy night, hurtling
Across a murderous landscape to this room
In time. I think I hear tires and brakes. I dream.
Perhaps your car will stop outside again.
Meanwhile the leaves fall and pile up, the rain
Falls on the rain. The season is passing. I listen
To the cars drive past as I lie awake alone.