5-1-2017

Slowly, I am unbecoming.

I can read it
In old machine language,

Ecstatic
And plain;

In wet leaves that
Shimmer on torn limbs, among
Vortex signatures that have bested
Door
And trail.

In my teeth, I feel
Each step.

And
Under lamplight,
Near floods,

In old spring,

I have
Become difficult
to recall.

Still, I am lifted up
In old ways forward;

Among the
Calls of
Dreamed birds.