I

Old men go mad at night
but are not Lears

There his no kingly howling of their rage,
their grief, their fears, dementedly,
from sea-cliff into storm.

What’s left
is keeping hold of breath
and for cover never now a lover
rests them warm.

No title of dignity, now,
no height of old estate

Gives stature to the drama…

Ungrateful heirs, indeed!
Their treacherous seed

Turns them away from more than tall
gold-hammered doors:

Exiles them into such enormous night
skies have no room for it

And old men have no Fools except themselves.


II

Why is so much still wanted
in such a small place, haunted
by such—

No, pain’s not much.
Premonitory twinges…

Oh, later, greater
but by then too late:

Pain’s courier
throws into panic of flight
before

Banner and drums and all of
armored might…

There is a wink of light
above a bedroom sill
until—

Was that a board that creaked
as he took leave of us,
or did he speak—
“I’m going to sleep, good night…”

I have used the earth, I have abused the earth
Now I must lose the earth.

No breath for such a cry,
if there were thought or tongue…

Old men were never young.