when I’m seventy is what amazed me
when I was sixty and fifty and forty
that I’m still not quite myself
I still only occupy a small outcropping
on the map I think of as myself
wave-ruined and languorous hillock
of stones in coastal fog
a morning in early February
straw light climbing the wall
winter built of blocks of cold
or I’m dreaming like January
praying for an early thaw
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