In this chronometric crater I'm catering,

in the image

of the sandy trapping pit

of an ant lion,

the moment of acceptance of age

has dawned on me,

without further ado,

without misgivings or slacking slickness,

like the soothing fragrance of a butterfly orchid

where cows rest at night, some ways off

- ancient memories in the grass -

or like the warm sunlight on my skin

at twelve noon,

connecting me

to the wider attributions of the cosmos

Just being

is a reward, a place, a time;

the Nobel Prize of existence,

out of the generosity

of an expanding universe,

and in a time,

the properties of which

are those of a fairytale

This letting-go of myself

- of my self! -

opens a calm habitat

in the birdsong of early summer

I'm not going, great style,

I stay

with the rippling

of brook and senses

and whatever is left

and feels right!

The bicycles remain my friends,

and the book stacks,

while a vain war rages;

its muscles and tendons twitching

and rupturing

under the horizons,

sonic booms fertilizing back gardens

with civilian remains

Outbreaks of human pride

have death drag its rancorous rain

along the perimeters of my mind

A seemingly total change may terrify,

but is but the crest

of a motion

been going since long,

behind the eyes

I'm not going

The world is taking place

A turbo-prop plane inches

across the firmament;

a thought crawls like an insect

across the pavement

Time moves in jerks and fits

like drops of rain

down an afternoon window

when no one is home