Younger now--
Winking-wards-back-
-Never feeding satchels
With broken thumbs.

Slightly sniffing-
Sorrows in--
Decrepit hand-bags,

The silence is short.

And supposing day-beings
Are breaking evenings,
For nights that always come.

We know attics; see-how
Detached I am.
That boldness of single
Salmon-sand.