I’ve reached the age of forty-two
And squint to read small print and clocks;
Can barely thread a needle through,
And Mondays, slip on mismatched socks.
But while most shapes are getting blurred,
My eyesight getting worse and worse,
Intangibles seem less obscured.
Nevertheless I curse the curse
For though I see the dusk ahead
And wish with all my ebbing might
It were the other way instead
And that a lingering morning light
Invited me to loll in bed,
I know each day demands its night
To make it day, by rote, by rite.
The sky creeps toward me, oozing red.
Beyond’s the black. Beyond black, white.
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