From mortality o’clock to the impending
otherwise, the once acute mind grows
its down, the difficult heart unlearns its body.
Heat is speech. The eye, the great sympathetic,
comes to a full. I deserve this age, when death
is the casual marvelous found almost daily.
And the woman my story keeps exposing is
a glass held over his little village, a cold cloth
of holy water, a midnight voyeur rising
for the specter of my woman. Why I nevertheless
am present is when what I want given
I am given. To knife the known life. I condone
belief as it up-spirals: to have never believed
in touch is immediately an always vital order.