Abstract

SenilityCalled from pleasuresI go tap-tapping down an old man’s backdown the skin of eighty summers wastingon a rib-ladder closingon a history of heart and lungs.These narrowly contracting bags I find, proclaim“Today his chest is clear as yours or mine.”This is the news requiredas the tide of vigilancelaps his sheets each surfacing dawn.“He’s doing very well.”He leans his gaze to the voice dintingthe routine of his roombut slides the focal point towards infinitypast those gatheredto the motes of memoryto wherepinned in the windthrough their age and bondher sacrificial flags go flutteringbattered and fastened into the room’s cornerhinged haggard to his unhinging.In this too a workless son and centrelessclock-bound slaveto the incontinent brain and its seepage.Two tight-wire walkerswell talked out by nine each bed-wet daythe backyard hoist their prayer-wheel creaking.The sheets flap up the scent of their detentions.Time in its time will track them round their modest cornernovice at the f