Lineage Anagrams III

I try but cannot subtract my waist. How impossible to tell someone’s age

these days. To my objective ovaries, age is a mortal’s most mortal myth. No lie

to be found in follicles that cannot be found. Leg by leg

my empty hatches sounds for the wand’s cool blue gel.

I sleep with the same face on as waves bounce and eel

around my years before their time.

                                       There on the doppler: my burnt-out ingle,

hearth of collapsing star. I instruct my ghosts to hold the line

& dream with the same mind in my mind. What for, my liege?

This vault swept bare by gales. I lean against my glen’s

black count: most of all I had has been lost. My line’s last gene.