I have spent
nothing but ageing.
None of me moves,
but I watch and feel freckles
I see eyes cloud to some
glaucomatous milk, unwillingly
thoughts now trail off in the inner ether.
I pull at the reluctant skin
on the hand’s back.
It has no thought of returning.
Having exhausted itself on the journey
it peaks in the pinches’ fold.
Eventually dying back to shape.
It occurs to me I could do all this
whilst reading, and I decide to make some tea.