In These My Lear Years
I am led
Around
With
My declining
Vision,
Not a blindness
Not by a boy
But by a small wind.
Not on a heath
But Harding St.
Jefferson, Louisiana.
Lear,
It’s ok.
You have your way
Of doing
This senescence,
I have mine.
But In my decline
Little exultations
Triumph, part of the fabric
This magic carpet unrolls
Under my feet,
Circling the block,
Little everlastings,
Every step
A dance —