It is the old story: complaints about the moon
sinking into the sea, about stars in the first light fading,
about the lawn wet with dew, the lawn silver, the lawn cold.
It goes on and on: a man stares at his shadow
and says it’s the ash of himself falling away, says his days
are the real black holes in space. But none of it’s true.
You know the one I mean: it’s the one about the minutes dying,
and the hours, and the years; it’s the story I tell
about myself, about you, about everyone.