At evening, something behind me.
I start for a second, I blench,
or staggeringly halt and burn.
I do not know my age.
In the morning it is different.
An open book confronts me,
too close to read in comfort.
Tell me how old I am.
And then the valleys stuff
impenetrable mists
like cotton in my ears.
I do not know my age.
I do not mean to complain.
They say it is my fault.
Nobody tells me anything.
Tell me how old I am.
The deepest demarcation
can slowly spread and sink
like any blurred tattoo.
I do not know my age.
Shadows fall down; lights climb.
Clambering lights, oh children!