He rises from a bed
of twisted pillows and sheets - his tongue
a burr from the all-night beer, his clothes
a scarecrow upon a chair.
like a pharaoh's chest, belt curled
like an adder, hair thicker than
a hawk's nest - he stumbles down the stairs.
A full bowl of sunlight,
a rim of clover, and new tears
of dew on his crying pant cuffs -
over the hill to the mouth of the beach
The world is stretching
grotesquely, stretching in circles of gold.
Eighteen years are behind him.
He will never be old.