The answer came to me at about three, this morning:
nothing. There is nothing to be done. My work
lies within these bounds: it is to be as kind
as sense and time allow; to think as hard
and as generously as I know how;
to meet each person's eyes
with an honest gaze. Such commitments as I've made
to the grand world, honor them; but make no more.
It is one of the corners of middle age (a land
full of corners): the world is no longer mine to fix.
I am drifting out of it. I belong more and more
to the forgotten times, times that no longer bend
when I push them: they and I are setting, hardening.
We become the past: the play of light is history
caressing our long stone faces: the patina
already gathering, the features