dark nights

seeping

spilled ink pooling on paper

indelible marks

smudged beneath my eyes

which crinkle at the corners

rheumy pains in my shoulder

and i protest:

i’m still young!

death is not yet allowed this stealthy

encroachment

pains reach down

with branching fingers

tubers in the loamy earth

i am conscious, certainly

uncertain

this tangible self

warm, cold, shivering, ecstatic

electrical conduit

turbulent pool of water

murky with mud and earth

and clay

gracefully clumsy

with the grace of god

there go I

my rheumy shoulder

my prematurely wrinkled eyes

that see tomorrow approach

just a big minute away

from becoming today

and the majestic oak

calmly reaching toward

the sky

stretching out,

sending ropes down

into the very womb of the earth

counting years like days

that accumulate on the surface

of its tangible self

insects chewing on blighted leaves

and rheumy limbs

that reach towards the sun

regardless

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