isn’t an historical age,
But an individual one, an age to be repeated
Constantly through history. It could be any age
When the self-absorbing practicalities of life
Are overwhelmed by a sense of its contingency,
A feeling that the solid body of this world
Might suddenly dissolve and leave the simple soul
That’s not a soul detached from tense and circumstance,
From anything it might recognize as home.
I like to think that it’s behind me now, that at my age
Life assumes a settled tone as it explains itself
To no one in particular, to everyone. I like to think
That of those “gifts reserved for age,” the least
Is understanding and the last a premonition of the
Limits of the poem that’s never done, the poem
Everyone writes in the end. I see myself on a stage,
Declaiming, as the golden hour wanes, my long apology
For all the wasted time I’m pleased to call my life—
A complacent, measured speech that suddenly turns
Fretful as the lights come up to show an empty theater
Where I stand halting and alone. I rehearse these things
Because I want to and I can. I know they’re quaint,
And that they’ve all been heard before. I write them
Down against the day when the words in my mouth
Turn empty, and the trap door opens on the page.
from Raritan