En route, Hartford stiffens
and at the same time becomes lighter.
Fall ceases to be the fall.
The cockerels don’t sing.
This necessary world of objects
is transmuted in the gaze
of the weary man, weary but contented
with everything made in himself
by the imagining mind.
In Hartford, it’s always fall,
as it is in certain jails. Connecticut
and here’s the poem. As soon as he gets
to the office, Mrs Halliwell will write it down.