I wish I could be old right now. Rewind me a few months from death, fingers
knotted and aching, breath unreliable.
What luck
to steal a few hours of age from myself, or a day or a week—work
up my tolerance and understand what will go missing,
then, when my life is all poured out, every drop wrung from
the flesh
I could spend that week in an unlined face, laughing, skidding
on succulent joints, then throw it all off
like a dress that never belonged to me.
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