What I spill in a dream  
runs under my door,
ahead of my arrival
and the year’s wide round,

to meet me in the color of hills
at dawn, or else collected
in a flower’s name
I trace with my finger
in a book. Proving

only this: Listening is the ground
below my sleep,
where decision is born, and

whoever’s heard the title
autumn knows him by
is heir to all those
unfurnished rooms inside the roses.