No Country for Old Men
In one another's arms, birds in the trees,
—Those dying generations—at their song
Sailing to Byzantium
By William Butler Yeasts
I set the rain on fire, lacerated the sun
with my straight razor
so I could part company with time.
I'm saving my abysses,
to scamper away from the cold
so as not to be disgusted with death.
This country is no place for the elderly,
the ridiculous collections of antiquated scores,
birds bebopping jazz on the autumnal tree
of sensory music that ignores everything,
a ragged coat on a folded cane.
Teenagers, standing on God's sacred fire,
turn to me and say…
Stick to being the educator
of your wrinkled breath.