In Red Foliage Full of Guitars

In red foliage full of guitars

the girls’ yellow hair waves

at the fence, where sunflowers persist.

A golden chariot steers through the clouds.

In brown shadows the ancients

grow dumb, and dumbly entwine.

The orphaned ones sing vespers—sweetly.

Flies hum in the yellow haze.

In the stream the women wash.

The hung linen undulates.

The little girl, long dead to me,

returns throughout the dawning night.

From the tender sky sparrows fling themselves

into green holes pregnant with rot.

The hungry are filled

with the ghost of bread and spices.