Sitting in the armchair by the window, I looked at the fallen
leaves soaked in the rain, beaten by the heels of passers-by
rushing into the unknown as far as the dust they are made of,
and tried hard to make an anecdote out of my ultimate ledger.
And so it came: the white sheets, yesterday gently brushed
by the soul cake crumbs, were now in the wash to be ready
for tomorrow’s catafalque.
hidden pilcrow 