The Mountain

At evening, something behind me. / I start for a second, I blench, / or staggeringly halt and burn, / I do not know my age. // In the morning it is different. / An open book confronts me, / too close to read in comfort. / Tell me how old I am. // And then the valleys stuff / impenetrable mists / like cotton in my ears. / I do not know my age. // I do not mean to complain. / They say it is my fault. / Nobody tells me anything. / Tell me how old I am. // The deepest demarcations / can slowly spread and fade / like any blue tattoo. / I do not know my age. // Shadows fall down, lights climb. / Clambering lights, oh children! / you never stay long enough. / Tell me how old I am. // Stone wings have sifted here / with feather hardening feather. / The claws are lost somewhere. / I do not know my age. // I am growing deaf. The birdcalls / dwindle. The waterfalls / go unwiped. What is my age? / Tell me how old I am. // Let the moon go hang, / the stars go fly their kites. / I want to know my age. / Tell me how old I am.