at neck, at

shoulder, that

stokes a man

as he grows

older. Nothing

rages, nothing

fumes. No one

races through

the rooms,

alarmed. How

casually he’s

armed. How

gradually arises

what surprises

in his mirrors.

Unawares as

fall runs colder,

pulls he only

slightly tighter

his good wool

sweater, thinner

than ever now

at elbow,

at shoulder.