The long faces of the mountains are
blue with Sunday stubble,
some old neck’s
twin below in the
rocks, skin sagging
over brushy hollows,
melting along the arroyos and
tendons. Never mind.
Youth is death’s
flimsiest disguise.
On the lake the sun has laid down
silver so thick
you could
walk across to the other side.
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2 comments:
I like this poem!
Youth is death's flimsiest disguise.
You nailed it T. So why are we all so taken in by it? Or maybe it's just shallow types like moi.
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