speaking à la carte

the sun is dying in the russet west

yet you hold on to whatever looks like daylight,

that is, whatever shines or,

if worst comes to ragged worst,

whatever is shiniest: tin foil,

hair clips, bottle caps, bits of chrome.

you say, no one sees me,

i will never be dethroned.

a final burst of ruddy atmospherics

and the great light extinguishes itself;

do you feel superior?  all around you

a tawdry immortality lasts into the  night,

an aura of brilliant confidence

straight through till morning.

perhaps you are right to scorn

the regular death of my dreams

and the slowly gathering death of my parts,

my members’ slow decay –

i welcome it and, like the sun,

descend towards my rest

while you are ever striving, striving, striving.

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