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.