The long, low sound of
Bass clarinets
And the slow progress
On a half-size concert bass
Bring forth the long duress
First wrought by sunsets
And which now has
Stretched
And won't be snapping back
Anytime soon.
So here's the moon
Mocking age and books.
Plodding, wafting like the
Lowest part of a concert,
The drift of time asserts
Its power over the work
And over the years.
Having too many
Anniversaries
Of things
Merely dries
The foolish tears
Of youth and hope
For something
Beyond the scope
Of the inane.
So play on, clarinet.
I have not lost this yet.
postscript
This was an exhausting birthday. And consisted largely of homework and meetings. Whoo hoo. My brain is nearly empty of thinking capabilities. Small wonder if my poems become more and more inane. But I'll keep trying.