Mid-Life by D. R. James

That dusk was too deft:
it wicked sad nostalgia
out of treetops, scrawled
and flicked far-flung secrets
across a chimerical sphere,
treaded afresh its upheld
ceiling of concrete gauze.

Ah, those were the leaps
of an unwilled mind
wild atop its uncoiled spine
of interlocking coins. Its
ruminations flocked unherded,
entwined like tendrils knitting
their perpetual thicket. It
shuttered the windows
that faced drained runnels
of under-foot dreams, shattered
the mirrors that echoed scant
overhead sheen. It verged
on a strain of extinguishment!

But the lean body endured, limbs
akimbo, torso torqued to support
a pent-up stare— Or was it surprise?
Like emerging under unclouded
sun from a feudal cell, some clue
like a smell aiming a mangy dog,
nails clicking, to a feasible feast.