Those days were just the twilight
And soon the poems and songs
Were merely associations
Fringed with bitterness
Focused on pain
From paintings in a minor key
Remembered in the warm nights
When he made love with strangers
And struggled with old words
Unable to forget that once he had created new ones
And fumbled with their breasts with broken hands
When he finally became very old
And the nights were cold because
No one was a stranger
And there was little to do
But sift through the years between his yellowed fingers
Then like shadows of dancers twisted by fire
The alternatives would line up
Around his wicker chair
And he regretted everything L.C