the old man tries to
loosen himself from his
body— a lethargic bow
leaning on an old chair
foreboding the angel of death’s
welcoming, he tastes himself—he
tests his tongue with withering
bay leaves. the birds here
sing songs that whittle down
his spirit and depart momentarily.
sullen, he savours his vanity
like winds that bask in the sphere
of lake albert.
every atom here knows his
body’s taste. but his
goes on as a hunted horse
with his bones poking at each.