I am in the prime of my life
because each instant is prime,
not reducible to any factors,
but simply stubbornly itself
I have accumulated age, carry
it now with me and within me
I’ve been through more than I
can say, although I try to speak
This instant of December near
the winter solstice, gray, twilight
coming down early, has a freshness,
even a sparkle, a way that I
am prime with myself within
the vessel that I take for myself –
I hear melodies I can not sing, frame
scene after scene I can not paint
I am with myself as darkness
descends, no stars tonight but
the scent of wood smoke mixed
with the scent of skunk, fading
No instant can pass for another
but each one passes for itself,
and is replaced by yet another,
incommensurable, vast and free