growing gradually
slower and blinder,
what if the years
make me more
and more sensitive
to the ways in which
the wonder serves
to compliment the horror
of every pair
of rising
and setting suns?
Or perhaps I'll hear sounds
more intensely
than the patience
and time it would take
to write down
or describe them—or realize
that the scent of loss,
and tang of strong
renunciation
now feel like a mix
of mundane
and supernatural
that's become
second nature to my seasoned
mouth and nose.
It's possible that, in return,
a sense which is
even more obscure
might fail me
as I summit the peak
of my powers;
but most likely, it won't
matter, since I
don't rely on it any longer.
In fact, I
won't even know
what to call it—
though, if pressed
and harassed by the
unpracticed young,
I'll still smile and say
something like: all my
specificity.
