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A withering
Dried up, shrivelled, exposed, weather-beaten,
This wasting away of the body afflicts with decay
The hey-ho day of the day-to-day. Friends desert us quite,
And no quenching returns
All that was rubbed away, like stains that do not dry
Wither, languish, and decay. Time pines away.
In this quagmire, this swamp of guilt, regret,
Spilt water, wine: I forget which itch of memory did the damage.
No transubstantiation this, no divine release
Into immortal bliss: yoked, ploughed,
Dragged, inchoate; a process has begun.
A work of resistance, an inception in art
Of all the heart-wrung soul that is left in me.,
A back-formation, if you like, a lamenting,
A fading away, quite.
Welcome now obscurity, shadow,
Winters tree stripped,
Bent in the winds of time.
A modulation of a voice, a volte-face:
No variation of mood, No conjugation of mine
Has such bad intent as to awaken from sleep
The legions of demons that laugh as we weep.
Stripped down, declining back to the exoskeleton,
That shadow lies behind the sun.
And yet we take such passing grace in diminutives — ducklings,
Sweeties, babies — these auras, zephyrs, gentle breezes,
Whispers of what we were, and could be again.
