I am in the forest looking for
fragments of speech, the betrayed
holy words which cannot utter themselves.
I have been lost for days.
There are many moons; the time
is at the crossroads of autumn.
In my mouth are burnt poppyseeds,
at my elbow December’s shadow.

I ask for directions; you answer:
“Somewhere, in some house far from here,
a man is weaving the rope in which
this day shall be hanged.”