Come in and find me here, lost in bed;
creaking, paint-chipped door awakening.

Something still like sleep, old and dear,
is forgetful and shaking my aged fingers.

A blue linen morning against a window,
wrinkled dry on the laundry line of autumn:

October light of loose-leaf oak steam, the
parched leaves spread in draping gold webs

there bare on the threadbare lawn of autumn.

"Sit down, where have you been," say in light coughs;
"Find you a place to—" Sun-touched sheets, aged:

Drape and lather the dust-painted face, mine,
pull threadbare over it in half-light.

The scent of black-haired Lethe sadness, yours,
trails as ruddy, marble wine gentle in the air:

Over, against my strange windows, keeping
me up today and still.


Come in, find me here at the night-stained door;
a gentle cough of light pours in for a moment.

I am an old man, a wrinkled wooden porch
crumpled in fingers buried in plaid sleeves,

mumbling through the creaking dark still.

"Find you a fine place to sit, yes."
Help you down into November, in an aging chair.

Aching stairs go on with their stiff bagatelle:

Never spoke that it was crisp in the black
cotton of air inside or otherwise ideal, rather

"Lost here, and aging steps for you."
The evening of morning, lifted and confused.

Naive, ruddy eyes peer from your shadow,
an honest portrait, sun-touched in dust, too.

You could be the voice in the dark I hear
for the rest of my life.