autumn!

Little spitcurls of light arrive,
blanch and die in the lovage,
and sour autumn olives red
are pendant here.
In this pallid hour, a fallen chestnut
found, mealy and dark, split open,
might, crumpled as an ambergris,
a little pearl of dusk, round as an owl's-eye,
find a new rest in a whorled palm, and I
whose lips pursed for sought mercy
all morning, who's shuddered at clocksvine,
asters, carnations, might perch
at the lip of the new hour as a hand
on a new-set bowl.