After thirty-something years
of abysmal nights' sleep, I
strongly suspect
the days are not passing—
which neatly accounts for
the observable fact
that I haven't been aging—
the way a final chord of "A Day
In The Life" decays,
the way moonlight moves
in gradual spirals
around the closed fist I hold out
through the window's bars,
the way you always
tend to look different
from the very last
person I kissed—these things
are very clever user illusions,
when really it's the question
I've been asking
over and over again
which keeps growing older—
and slower, and more worn
with deep wrinkles of astonishment,
and of course sleepier
and ever-sleepier—waiting
for its answer.
