The weather is changing. The mountainous temperate
edges toward autumn
There’s a crowded sound in the rattling leaves of the fig
and I think of cities,
though the second fruit, ovarian, purple, splitting to
is ready for picking.
The brambles hedging pink villas banked up from the
burgeon with berries
ripening black, seeded, sweet, which the French don’t
bother to gather,
but sometimes I do,
taking an extra plastic bag in my back pocket, coming
up from the market.
The bedsheets are grimy and wrinkled, but why should
to the costly laundry
what we’d need for a couple of days? All our
touch on departure.
— Marilyn Hacker, author of Selected Poems 1965 – 1990