Exempla of the Aged

 

   That Wisdom to know when to rise

is caught in shades, strong-armed by two fleshy feet

   that get up slowly, greet the light.

& hold derisively to the taffrails of a stormy Day

   There's no tabla or tabor but an ear-ringing;

& that ache at temples in cheap palliative out-

   doors where icy pale yellow straw

are beds, not graves.

   Degrading gloss of plastic

   patio seats, too, without flaming horses!

At first glance his face rising lowers towards

   Styrofoam cups; nose & chin moisten

heading for a ground far away from the rails & damp.

   The cheeks are cracked flowerpots.

If anyone sees 'em when he tries to go, it's welcome

   relief from leggy shades round him.

If ever a heavy forearm makes a start, it's rebel angel

   wing of eighty or so that slowly tears him

from his toast.

He may even find there some bold fixity,
   with crumbs on lips & crumpled chin,

and can thank himself for it & "a word with you"
   would be enough.

 But if "no one's

heard me, it's been quiet at least" because "he's wise

   who knows when it's time to rise".

Fay, please confirm

Fay, please confirm

             that it's just another spring

  memory, veiled

like the Crocus at the painter's

  feet-

  a clay bed

for seeds to green in lavender heat,

  heats of old;

              & things like that!

You, in yr leg-horned hat, will plant 'em

 scented in milkpod

(or gashed to let in dew), and

  keep in one drying eye

Dreamless, like petals in your hands,

  are ghosts of a milky

love! 

And shadowy, to be passed on

  in hectic heat;

at that zenithal, uppermost stalk

  of yr one dear eye, Fay!

For whose dear sake, (or since it's me!)

  a type of acid-

yellow flower or the stone of a

  southern star

will punch through Night's hollow bars

...

  Fay, please, it's

just a time zone long, up or down--

  acid Crocus of my love!