The candidates remind winter that autumn is first. Misty mellow fruitfulness ought to be rights. Rites of autumn spring to mind, that candidates dare to tell us. They tell us the side of the circle, they tell us the center. The circle sits squarely somewhere, derived from association. Release from the drama of knowing no more, the candidates open themselves to circles. Their speech arrives after a while, when talk is cheap enough. Something steadies us as we listen. All purpose relies on the waves, first autumn then winter. Spring and summer seem refused. Someone upstairs vacuums the floor.