The old men are fishes, soaking up the ocean.
We don’t appreciate the moments before birth,
the nutritious water before birth happens,
moments seeming to last forever; the moments almost do;
why can’t you understand this, you
who took part of an evening to be sorrowful in a bath?
All of us had warm moments in the water tank of youth.
Why do you trouble yourself? You will be more beautiful at fifty-five,
scientific diet and everything. Who said appearance wasn’t everything?
It sure the hell is. Do we condemn art?
All that looks, after the inward desire exhausts itself beating tediously for what will look?
And isn’t it what looks—and what it looks at—that we have a heart?
What you think is artificial is not. Looking before and after is what artistic is.
Greek vases and statues. Poetry succumbs to them.
And you know judgment is finally best. Forget the awkwardness of the judge or the judge’s voice and manner.
Macro-judgements in micro-seconds are all. I splash water on my face
appearing, for a few seconds, younger;
the top of my shirt is wet. The shirt will dry.
And you will die.