Age

  by Robert Creeley

    Most explicit——

    the sense of trap

    as a narrowing

    cone¹ one's got

    stuck into and

    any movement

    forward simply

    wedges once more——

    but where

    or quite when，

    even with whom，

    since now there is no one

    quite with you——Quite？ Quiet？

    English expression： Quait？

    Language of singular

    impedance？ A dance？ An

    involuntary gesture to

    others not there？ What's

    wrong here？ How

    reach out to the

    other side all

    others live on as

    now you see the

    two doctors， behind

    you， in mind's eye，

    probe into your anus，

    or ass²， or bottom，

    behind you， the roto-

    rooter-like device

    sees all up， concludes

    "like a worn-out inner tube，"

    "old，" prose prolapsed， person's

    problems won't do， must

    cut into， cut out . . .

    The world is a round but

    diminishing ball， a spherical³

    ice cube， a dusty

    joke， a fading，

    faint echo of its

    former self but remembers，

    sometimes， its past， sees

    friends， places， reflections，

    talks to itself in a fond，

    judgemental murmur⁴，

    alone at last.

    I stood so close

    to you I could have

    reached out and

    touched you just

    as you turned

    over and began to

    snore not unattractively，

    no， never less than

    attractively， my love，

    my love——but in this

    curiously⁵ glowing dark， this

    finite emptiness， you， you， you

    are crucial， hear the

    whimpering back of

    the talk， the approaching

    fears when I may

    cease to be me， all

    lost or rather lumped

    here in a retrograded，

    dislocating， imploding⁶

    self， a uselessness

    talks， even if finally to no one，

    talks and talks.