Now there are creases that curve
from the flanges of my nose
to the scissure of my lips.
And a deep cleft, like something
left by a hatchet,
above the bridge of my nose.
The brusque, impersonal obstinacy of aging.
Weeding around the bushes in front
of our house, I breathe in the slightly licorice
scent of rotting leaves.
Though it’s twilight, down the street I hear
workers with their tree chipper coming nearer.
In the glimmer and darkfalling
afterglow, my small exuberances
hive in me like worms in a cadaver.
I’ll just sleep for a while
with these stones over my eyes.
Don’t turn away or you’ll lose me.
But there you go anyway, drifting out
in the saline backwash of dream.
