FROM MY BRIEF SIXTY

   by Bates Corlieu

From my brief sixty I walk the will back
over the hill to watch all old selves
blythe in that deep bowl of beginnings
in church yards and lover’s beds
now flower beds and grave yards
rich with giggling ghosts that pluck
at my unraveling so amused
by the crazy lady’s war of the broiling lip
throwing open her mad inked tongue
like this
and who does she think she is
standing here alone
turning once again alone
I trudge into the wind alone
streaming her greys and daring to go
peek over the next abyss
alone