Self(The Poet PassÉ)portrait

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