Growing Old

  “The women come & go
talking of Michaelangelo.”
– T.S. Eliot

Old loves for old age.  Tell us of the women of Manila—
Temps perdu.  & we open wide the closets for flowers, skulls
hidden among the mugs of absinthe, bongo, & gaslamp jazz.
O How dirty old men keep in stride with rock-bed lust!

Having known the dip of women & burnth of deeper rose,
we hobble on the green of secret walks:  What evening is
but the welter of terrible storms of doves;  what passes
by, as chairs in porticoes sag, is simple weave of light.

Dream, dry bastards, of limbs & chords once rocks to spare
mistresses who skitter by the rage of rivers, hands in hair:
Pull down the turret, dear Prufrock, spit your gloom away!

Slobbering on our tombs of knees, we pray for early death
while brats of kith & kin clamber up our broken chairs:
“O But the games you play, children, are neither new nor fair!”

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