At seventy-five I find myself in love.
Not the serene love of an old man
steeped in the wine and wisdom of years,
but one who would kill a dragon for her.
Death in the fog, all silver
& grisaille as it wreathes
& muffles children in the park.
My mind yearns for sleep so innocently it refuses
the perverse truth…
mocking with an ache
that comes with leafdrop, woodsmoke,
and those shots of bourbon that ease
not a thing
Let me say that love will not
let me alone. If it has let you alone, go back
and find it where you hid it under a scrim
Only about 1 in 10,000 people live to be a 100 years old. What’s their secret?
Gone is the old grove of green trees
Gone is the once-young, dancing body I had
Soon I’d be eighty. My hip ached,
the thumb he kissed bent with arthritis.
His scent was lime, and the nape
of his neck smooth as summer jade.
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