Now I Am Younger

What madness it is. What a puzzling wash
Of sky and stomach, of hurry-up-and-
Wait, and wait, and muzzling the ancient sun,
Yolking fire and sadness and hope. In the

Past, I was young. Now I am younger. My
Hands sing, cloaking the agent of Janus.
My tired eyes eat and eat. I think one day
Of soaking in a tub of whispers, but

In the morning they are gone. I have beat
The sun-drum; I have kissed the silver Christ
And drained the drops to wet my lips with the
Ache of winter, and I take no pride in

The hollow debt. My feet retrieve their form,
Then forget. I glide and glitter and go
Back, back, always back to the soundless world,
To the pagan garden beneath the streets,

Beneath the choking strands and guzzling storm.
The truth is that to love is to know, and
To know, to despise. To revise. So I smile
All the same, and stand, and conform. But

What I want is not to beguile, not to
Blow my troubles over you like so much
Snow—I have tasted and seen my own eyes—
But to apologize, and in these words,

To somehow sing the sun back to his home,
All debts returned to debtors, all our feet
Soaked in the ancient kiss, and whispers for
Fetters, younger still, our tired hands revised.

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