We are young, they say, like the new stars forming, like the ocean sounds adorning sleep to the city dweller, with his leathered face but handsome pay.
He's exchanging the sirens for a more rhythmic pace, taking off his coat and professional face, to press you to the wall, forgetting the Keats and the Byrons that came before.
We are young, I'm sure, despite having to crawl, despite disappearing into the city sprawl, and returning half a person, only memory intact, and a stream of shutting doors.
You're giving up too soon. Too soon a disciple of established fact, too soon beguiled by your own stage-lit act; a smile worn, rather than felt, a dress bought for him, but never touched,
and for all of the hands you may have dealt, not a single one has kept you young.