He envisions a wrinkled time and place
he does not know,
does not care to know,
a cheerless age absent sunlight
or the healthy scent of life remembered.
Dull edges of his mind attempt
to slice through acrid doubts that screen him
from the vigor of a sweeter age,
a time of fleeting youth on the wing.
He gropes through senescent haze
in silent search of the day of the week.
Fitful hours recur more and more frequently
as his muddled mind slips through
the tarnished screen
of a narrow opening on the night,
guided by an insistent but gentle nudge
to a secluded time and place where
phantom shadows cling to tenuous days.
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