on the Earth
for a while,
the bitter things
start to taste better
and better.
Those acrid black coffees
and astringent
brown liquors—
which at first
made you grimace
and shiver a little—
now taste a lot more
like the sweet woe
of knowing
that, with each passing
sip, the gnarled
measuring stick
with which you tally
your verve grows more brittle
and shorter.
By the time you're 85,
you're burning morning
toast on purpose,
heaping turmeric
and dirt on raw
eggplants for dinner;
such tastes of oblivion
are more than just
stirring—
a daily brush
with the ghastly truth
is all that keeps you going.
