Decline

It is not pain that holds me back, but time

With its sad prefigurations and smell,

Its flowers and echoes, rivers and crime.

Even now, without a future, I tell

Myself lies in future tense. As my hair

Thins, I collect combs. When clocks chime, I groan.

The falling world finds pleasure in despair

Because to suffer means to be alone,

And I suffer through all the accidents

Of change as though I were settling a score,

As if to disinvent what death invents.

I once built a castle, now I do chores.

To pass the time I rearrange my things.

To fall asleep I recite names of kings.