‘A Tavern’
With or without a steady hand
I decline into a withered state
In the face of all I have tended
To know and to un-know
In a period of grace
Which to me is unknown
If I try to count all the facets
Of these faces on my wall
I begin to feel slight
And innumerable myself,
As if I am not there.
My face swims among the numbers
But is tied to no facet
No string of words, in recognition
Of reality, can pursue my tongue;
Or be pursued by it.
I am one of the murmurs on my wall
That softly gargle and envelope
The crust of this unworldly tavern
And in the bleakest moments
I see no real remedy to this fixation
Of past life and memorial
To enough of the best
And worst times in hell.