It is not pain that holds me back, but time With its sad prefigurations and smell Its flowers and echoes, rivers and crime Even now, without a future, I tell Myself lies in future tense. As my hair Thins, I collect combs. When clocks chime, I groan The falling world finds pleasure in despair Because to suffer means to be alone And I suffer through all the accidents Of change as though I were settling a score As if to disinvent what death invents I once built a castle, now I do chores To pass the time I rearrange my things To fall asleep I recite names of kings
disinvent, prefiguration, suffer, invents, thins