Parkinson
The threatening nature of
artificial objects,
not snow dropping from pines
nor windows shattered with frost
but the flight of keys and bells
and all that begs for
subtle asides,
all that is malevolent for this,
all that falls,
that disobeys my hands,
those white apes mapped
with the veins of the Via Dolorosa,
all things that make my dry box spin,
my body does not follow me,
I often seem to look
over my shoulder
at the dark detective of age.
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