.....

There are leapyears
     lost under me,
   whole calendars in murk
       where the eyes go sinking,
    women in a hedge
            around my bed,
         a lurking instrument
      that cowers when my memory
                                 kicks in,
       and so many fathers and mothers of
           industries that will not survive.


I go without searching,
      without prying, with so many
          limbs windmilling
                       in my limbs
  that subsiding is impossible,
       but without favor, and
  without tact, I hem the fever skyward
                                        lacking a garden.