92.

The shadows of the evening still across

Your eyes, the recalcitrance of age takes up

These bones as if time could lie, and the sky

You longed for waits for the blind night

And the youth we lose is a gambler’s wheel

That exacts the guilt of cliché. Our night

Minds bombard us with types: the babble

Of radio, video, portable phone, the trample

Of internet, the numb hum of TV

All make light of body and soul. Bury my heart

In discourse, like radio waves for aliens

And lay us out in a script. The ineffable

Unthing that is us, and of us, is up against

The darkness nature, and we, make for us.