| Like fake admissions of love, My shackles are infinite and manifest Like speaking ghosts possessing the decay of my brain. I cannot feel the subtle transformations of skin-- First so smooth, the decadence magnetized in my memory. . . Then arrive the droghers of age Seemingly becoming pleasure�s charge to extinguish it. Unfeeling like dead things, My fingers rot like slighted carrots Not tasted by the most wanton of hares. Sunlight is drained like the breath of corpulent stair-climbers And your gifts are no longer palpable, The gifts for which I wrote the poems Expressing what so many fail to capture. But now, I cannot write them For there is no justice in imprisoning the sacred. |
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| "AGE" |