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.