"Middle Life."
Shall the swallow contend in song with the swan?
Shall the fawn run along the strong-limbed steed?
The childhood provoked, exuded a juice resembling milk,
until the spate was spent.
Winsome we were.
We rushed to catch the first flirt, the first fire.
Now the head's so heavy, the hands that
hold it press into the eyes.
So what is seen, is seen double.
The lamp in the night window, now twin lights.
The man wearing two faces and two bodies,
now four-faced, each of them you.