I am frightened
By my image.
I face a mirror
That doesn’t reflect, but predicts.
Boney hands
Can’t pick a flower,
Can’t raise a glass
To make a toast, to memories.
I’ve lost my touch
And don’t know
Whether it’s better
For tomatoes to be green or red:
To be innocent and sour
But have potential,
Or to buy one delicious
Moment In the sun, then drop and rot.
I don’t see well up close
And distant things are blurred.
I am wounded by the shift
From clear to dim, and friends are gone.
– Bennett Gurian
