The Lathe
My mother on a day of marked memory
By this cycling page of history
Gave me then my first nativity
I have no next title to her legacy
That stretches my skin to cover
The etiolated sagging of time
That since childhood over and over
Stripped me of the strict sublime.
I am not deluded by denials ruse
This subtle crawling of grave
Nearer to my impotence to refuse.
I am still, all the rage is in the wave.
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