The day will come, when age shall come, and get me.
When my bones will wish, to be like the young.
I hope nothing, but my comforting
Pillow besides. The smiles and rosies
Like a dinner plate. Cracked & cold
A miracle made, by the knife that
Be-fell on me. An left
Would I no do it. Fall myself ?
For a ball of basket-fulls. Of air.
Looking sound, hate me I beg. Hate me.
For I drive by dead doves. And lie.