As an older man, Graying, not stooped, I saw the future: Extremities Cold, tongue Sluggish, Foam at the lips. Excessive hope Seemed more Indulgent Than despair. I ran great distances. I stood in sunlight Just to see my shadow, Show it off. For the first time I remember My soul looked back. What other people learn From birth, Betrayal, I learned late. My soul perched On an olive branch Combing itself, Waving its plumes. I said Being mortal, I aspire to Mortal things. I need you, Said my soul, If you’re telling the truth.
At the end of August, when all The letters of the alphabet are waiting, You drop a teabag in a cup. The same few letters making many different words, The same words meaning different things. Often you've rearranged them on the surface of the fridge. Without the surface They're repulsed by one another. Here are the letters. The tea is in your cup. At the end of August, the mind Is neither the pokeweed piercing the grass Nor the grass itself. As Tony Cook says in The Biology of Terrestrial Mollusks The right thing to do is nothing, the place A place of concealment, And the time as often as possible.