that this is the gift
and I am ill with it;
it has sloshed around my bones
and brings me awake to
stare at walls.
musing often leads to madness,
o dog with an
old rag doll.
into and beyond terror.
seriousness will not do,
seriousness is gone:
we must carve from
fresh marble.
hell, jack, this is wise-time:
we must insist on camouflage,
they taught us that;
wine come down through
staring eye,
god coughed alive
through the indistinct smoke
of verse.
the light yellow mamas are gone
the garter high on the leg,
the charm of 18 is 80.
and the kisses,
snakes darting liquid silver
have stopped:
no man lives the magic
long.
until one morning it catches you;
you light the fire,
pour a hasty drink
as the psyche crawls like a mouse
into an empty pantry.
if you were El Greco
or even a watersnake
something could be done.
another drink.
well, rub your hands
and prove you are alive.
walk the floor. seriousness
will not do.
this is the gift,
this is the gift ...
certainly the charm of dying
lies in the fact
that very little
is lost.