It was my 62th birthday,
Herons, wild geese,
so beyond lake or water;
the perch does not bite
… it is a question of weed,
sea weed.

The I is a concerto, an adagio,
a slow introduction
into the dead Dead and their echoes
of dead qualities, of dead verification,
of tell tale blur and ambiguity.

Age is what I see, what I expect
in the meeting with all
I still can fathom or grasp,
with what I still am.
I am my years.