No more. I’m at the end of all of it.
“Allen, what is it like to be at the end?”
I am (strange but true) like a treasonous
feather falling from under the wing of
a startled bird that rises, suddenly,
in alarm, off the branch of a gray birch
(short-lived tree, in any case), because someone
is walking along the path.

Whatever he sees, Whateve “What is the history
of feather-fall?”

Whatever he sees,—Whenever you say something
considered, you also say: god is what
founds the dignity of human substance.

Therefore, poetry is a rigorous science,
because it is a path of the considering one.

Summer
is gone.

The falling feather is what cannot be thought about.
It is noticed or unnoticed. It is the very thing
without a name. If it grieves, there is no consolation.
If it draws the mind, there is no keeping of it in mind.
It is quickly forgotten.

The considering one must continue and does.

Whatever he sees, nothing he sees counts as reason
to stop.