By daily dying, I have come to be.

How body from spirit slowly does unwind, until we are pure spirit at the end.

So much of adolescence is an ill-defined dying, An intolerable waiting, A longing for another place and time, Another condition.

All lovers live by longing, and endure: Summon a vision and declare it pure.

The soul has many motions, body one.

My Papa's Waltz: The whiskey on your breath Could make a small boy dizzy; But I hung on like death: Such waltzing was not easy. We romped until the pans Slid from the kitchen shelf; My mother's countenance Could not unfrown itself. The hand that held my wrist Was battered on one knuckle; At every step you missed My right ear scraped a buckle. You beat time on my head With a palm caked hard by dirt, Then waltzed me off to bed Still clinging to your shirt.

Time marks us while we are marking time.