Self(The Poet PassÉ)portrait
His task to watch an hourglass wash itself,
A ritual cleansing that leaves him bare,
Though no purification’s new enough
To nullify the need for such labor—
Prior soon to repeat, platonic clone,
He should have practiced that horizon
Vocation, camouflage, opening his
Arms wide the better to hide. But of course
If the flesh is fire, bones are the kindling:
Still there but aching to be unbelied
By the lover, unbellied as breaths held
Until all the minutes fall to the wrong
End of the hour and find his final
Efforts, ve faded, dated as (or like) a sundial.
