How history might count down
Oh bitterness. A lecture to the nose, the tongue.
Oh hell. My every skin cell, rupturing to preach,
never learned the poetry of skidding through
day one to day’s end. Oh hell, the capacity of
men to talk to their own forehead hardly taught
the rare fact of their own being where their own head
tried to steep down, cure a little, turn to brown.
Old men were born young and thought little of it.