With centuries of memory 
stored in a youthful body. 

It is — or could be — such a pleasure 
if we didn’t fear it so much, 

to get old and indulge in 
subversive acts of dawdling, 

withering, forgetting with impunity, 
letting go of ambition served too long, 

its bittersweet ligatures finally breaking 
down and dissolving. 

While others feverishly train 
body and brain in gyms, 

let me cultivate the corpse flower, 
listen to it like a radio in a small room 

quietly playing its hypnotic 
melodic overture of decomposition.