Lord, it is time. Summer was a huge space.
Lay your shadow now on the sundials
And in the lowlands let the winds loose.
The last fruits will ripen at your sign.
With two more southern days in your correction,
Compel them on to their mature perfection
And send the last sweetness into the swollen vine.
It's too late now to start to build a house.
The lonely heart will keep its unsold wares,
Will stay awake, will read, will write long letters
For many days, and still not find peace,
As dead leaves blow along the thoroughfares.
Translated by Sean Lysaght
From Carnival Masks (Gallery Press, 2014)