Stars have their fires
the fly its flitter
churches, their spires
the rain its hammer.
How many wrinkles can eyes hold?
Night draws his curtain
these stories all told
a hundred year clock, our burden.
Sure release of eggs
insures against the certain scythe
cramp of blood, pain, dregs
of unfulfilled life.
So lay out the tools:
tin nails and typewritten pages,
paint tubes, tape and broom
to protect while body ages.
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