might be more important than coming in,
where you try to entrance the host and
people already at the party—those too
worried to arrive late—knowing everyone
will wait and try to spy out your entourage
as a sign of your arrival. But when you leave,
looking for infinity among the trees, even
your retinue are on guard, knowing the world
outside isn’t secure, and entre nous, they’ve
read the same poems, both translations and
adaptations, felt the maturity of the harvest,
wondered if frost has touched you, too. They
don’t want you to look tired, not when the
project finished months ago, and evening
fatigue might mean setting you free, so
when you look round, no one meets your eyes.