46

GOODBYES

The dry afternoon tapers off
and cuts —oneness of my soul!—
like a knife.

It plunges into an always:
time , which was an always,
is divided into yesterday, tomorrow.
And that lonely shadow,
the only one on the sand,
is split in two: you and me.

The winds sign in dry strokes
the fatal verdicts
of September, destinies.
Here is yours, there is mine.

Goodbyes without goodbye
or even a handkerchief. The steel blade
of autumn slices
our life in two halves.
That life,
perfectly whole, golden,
round, hanging there
on the branch of August
where you picked it.