I assure you, I am falling apart.
My toes peel like grapes, like
thick snakeskin, molting in the sun.
My knees ache under the weather,
the weight of July in a single storm.
My teeth offer sudden pain,
when offered what is sweet.
Behind my eyes these thick storms
have all of them broken, breaking my concentration.
My body is nothing to offer.
Oh, this failing frame must be
made in God’s great image!
Did Christ have a nub of skin
from the later breaking of his frenulum?
Did his hairline move as far as mine
by thirty-three?
I have nothing to give a later love,
my appetites, also, all of them used.
I have a body of obsolescence,
of image, of glory, of greater truths.