old
the joy of being born into matter
was more beautiful than anything in this world
the gradual diminution destroyed from matter
has its own wan beauty
and its sharp pangs and angers
and the bricks and taunts of distant youth
and survivals frame-worked inner beast
that snaps and spits at others for no fault
in whose house that articulation of self
in one small room where memories are lodged
some more beautiful than almost existence itself
in one small room where expulsion wanders
wonders if she would be brave enough
to walk the forbidden chasten path
off to that second threshold from whence we came
but not for me escapist passing
run through by mist that fades away
i will drift like distant terraced communes
through a vista passing
to make my crumbled peace with history
take my remains and build your home on them
or roll them down the hill
or let the ivy hide its secret fauna
and stand upon its tattered pleasure