Focus (New York July 1998)
Look, down there,
The long tunnel of the past.
Tight, sharp-eyed youth at the small end
Of the telescope.
Wide-waisted, wasted age,
Here, at the big, round, yawning end.
It's hard to look back.
So many memories have scraped
Across my eyes, have roared in my ears
My senses now
Are scratched and scored.
Scarred, scared, my soul is badly packed (or pocked) with reminiscence.
But this is clear.
That younger me, striving for perfection -
Of art, of moral, of principle, and all that jazz and jive -
Knew what he wanted
Saw it clear-eyed. Centered, at the crux,
He was in the moment, focussed. Which is what I can't be now.
The present is bleary, my focus is all past.
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