Above
the falling leaves stands
the
angel of victory: something
great
has been conquered
for
the walkers in the park.
All is equal to my desire;
the
trees ache with the color
of
my heart. The ghosts of all
past
summer suns are here, haunting;
here a chill wind blows just so
to
sweeten the loneliness;
and
here, like a warm body through
a
curtain, I can feel my secret—
the one we have by existing and hide
in our
existence, where it is safe
from every mind, angel’s or mine,
because it cannot be whispered.
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