like open coffins, remind
us too well that we trade
youth for history.
Habit persuades the old hand
to work, or move, from
the reticence of stone or revive
a sun beneath our twilight skins.
I am the god of my procrastination:
though my love dries up, dry
as twigs that catch children’s kites;
though cut, once, from the same
cosquelle fabric, the design
Or, I have not been trying.