Sometimes I
feel like I have lived sixty years in thirty
As if every
second is duplicated, inflated in the fourth dimension
Bulging
forward in sludge-steps of girth
Pushing out
the air of lightness that was in normal estimation
Intended to be
intermixed among the expedition
Traversing
this country-side with great expectations
A harmonica
and harp-type felicity dancing or humming
Or whatever
form of skipping lovers use to transport
Bodies amongst
chandeliers and aerial maneuvers
The inflation,
the sugar sweetness of space elevates
Visions of an
afternoon in Paris as decadence rather than nightmare
Anchoring
prospects of age to a clog of lead pins forged into the femur
Asking legs to
be that bit heavier melded with the minutes
Like an epoxy
of sluggishness pasting time to the follicles
Tacked into
the bone to portray the memory of such times
To read out on
the scale in duality of what was and what was absent
The absence
has its own weight
The couple-hood
is like a lake in summer prompting children to frolic
Yet in winter
the berg does form into the crevices of memory
Crystalized
and cumbersome to hold in body
Dangerous in
choices of limbs capable of treading in circular form
Legs scissor-motioning
through the undulating tide to keep head afloat
The isolation
forms the ridge of liquid into solid
Face numb,
appendages motionless
Peering out
through the depths of shackle ankles
Seeing the
clock pile on hour after hour
The air to
breathe is passing the threshold of frost
Frozen-blood
weighs twice as much
So it is, the
call to become younger now then what one was
Is to breathe
in the warming air of hilltops, gaze into the sun
That invigorates
the wren to search for twig to form nest
Despite the cavalry
charge of February winds
The throttle of
age is but a lever of the mind
No comments:
Post a Comment