His task to watch an hourglass wash itself, <br />A ritual cleansing that leaves him bare, <br />Though no purification's new enough <br />To nullify the need for such labor-- <br /> <br />Prior soon to repeat, platonic clone, <br />He should have practiced that horizon <br />Vocation, camouflage, opening his <br />Arms wide the better to hide. But of course <br /> <br />If the flesh is fire, bones are the kindling: <br />Still there but aching to be unbelied <br />By the lover, unbellied as breaths held <br />Until all the minutes fall to the wrong <br /> <br />End of the hour and find his final <br />Efforts,ve faded, dated as (or like) a sundial.<br /><br />Bill Knott<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/self-the-poet-pass-portrait/
