47.

And yet the morning light held you, the cuts

Of age not healing any time soon

On me, the worn iniquity, beauty

Fading like paint in the sun. Time choked me

As I slept, throttled the rose on the ledge,

Gouged the old man’s eyes, bent truth

Like so much tin. But the sweat was real

And you were there when I awoke, and terror

Stayed long into the light. Life makes

And moves these bones until the yard takes them back

No enmity against time prevails, the weeds

Surmount us even as the poetry of dust.

Yet your hair in the sun leads to your eyes

And while living against odds we seek no lies.