Of late, my heels bend and burn
Before an unfeeling incline,
Marked by pock-marked
Desert landscape filled
With deciduous apricot orchards.
Each of the whorls of my fingertips
Numbed, are now sent reeling backward.
While some of us may have defined
As trivial, senior moments,
Inclusive of a soporific decline,
Indicative of unattainable
And unbearable dimensions
Of sweet, divinatory acts of awakening,
What of adulterous
Memoirs of the spirit world,
Penned in verse
As well as in vast altars of prose?
If some of these are seen
As a blessed entree
Served before a menu
Of senility’s feast of capital gains,
What does the presence of a dancer mean
Beginning her wildly yet undeniably
Of La Bayadere or Don Quixote.
Any chance of an office romance
Cooling to a stop this winter?
The main point of all poetic blathering
Occurring at the old homestead
As an apoplectic apologetics of sorts,
Is that engineered in agenda
Befitting the aged, or the maimed.
In a place of poverty.
How may I dare leave off these projects
Involving yarn for an odd
Assortment of relatives,
Including a host of ragged socks, scarves,
Stockings, as well as flea-bitten cardigans?
Is each item meant to be delivered
To the hearing impaired, the deaf and the blind
Moved by a tumultuous art of lament,
By metaphors of basket-weaving,
Defying merciful episodic bouts
Of dream compliance?
If I still venture out
In a state
Of awakening before
Infinity’s darting glance of grace,
If wind still shaking the barley,
May I dare appear as mistress, crone,
Or as middle-aged balding harlot
Who slept her way to the top?
Maybe I will appear as that rare
Specimen of old age,
Accompanied by recidivist tendencies,
Who, doddering, relives acts of kindness,
Defined and mapped by kinship with the rose.
Or I am someone who,
In synapse of elderly dotage,
Before the spectacle of youth,
Is one appearing
Trapped in time-travel
In rustic parsonages
And constricted parishes
Among various estuaries
Defining seismographic moments
Among hysteria-prone masses?
If I pretend to wrap myself in potato eyes and rhizomes,
Rhizomes unwinding fleeting forms of aloneness,
Moored inside cavernous and abhorrent spates of darkness,
Why am I still wondering now, as I did years ago:
When is it my wife of twenty-five years
Will abscond with her suitor of choice?