From a chair beneath the oak tree, 
you see minarets 
in the leaves' shadows,
acorns like onion domes, a few drops 
of gold light splashing through 

like a revelation: 
summer is over. Farewell
to motives transparent
as glass and the blankness of mind
you mistook for enlightenment. 

Cardinals and blue jays at your feet
are weaving a pattern fluid
as a Persian carpet that you must ride
deep into the maze named Fall.
Behind unmarked doors 

expatriates from summer who fled
years ago are propped against pillows
in the permanent amber haze 
of  back rooms. They'll serve
mint tea steeped black, whispering 

that you, too, can make a home
in this once dazzling quarter 
always on the verge
of corruption.  There are worse places
to live with your secrets.

So take the tea, their tips, the keys
to your own concealment.
Even now, plots have been hatched 
and scouts fan out
from the winter palace.

From Rattapallax