Age

I feel it moving inside my belly
not a baby, not a worm
not an insider that wants to transform
some flesh into future possibilities.

I feel age and with it,
the unputdownable urge
to look at things in their nudity and bleakness.
No open windows or running water
or sparkling walls of busy city streets.
Only some lightbulbs hanging over my table,
fatigued, refusing to keep me warm, by the end of the day.

She said I needed a fresh prism
She hoped it would be love that could sew my nerves together
She waited for something to melt inside my head
as though problems are blocks of solid
which needed some heat to pass through them.
But I shouldn't lie to her and I never do
when I am with her in bed every night I convince her
in soft hushed tones that
I'm not insane, just very, very old.