A hip and a shoulder on opposite sides are tightening up, giving me a sort of rolling gait. I stumble into the night splotchy-skinned, the hair on my arms thicker than on my head. Muscle is turning inexorably into flab, except for the heart, which is doubtless hardening with the arteries. My eyes grow dimmer every day, and yet when I see you sleeping there, a strand of hair across your face, the nightgown sliding off your shoulder, I want to hold on a little longer.
late autumn
toppling into a pile
of leaves –
the fragrance of earth
deep in my lungs
toppling into a pile
of leaves –
the fragrance of earth
deep in my lungs
by Bob Lucky
Hangzhou, China
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