I stare in the mirror
and see me standing
not unlike Adam
the day God formed him
out of worthless clay.
Bare, bearing my prime frame
altogether elated,
saying this indeed is man.
Ripe to the core
without blemish
that I can punch
with these naked eyes.
Then it escaped these twisted lips:
what, clay, are you concealing
that you know?
Bones and flesh and water
teamed with sinews
drowned in blood
but talking by nerves.
Silly response—
Who’s talking physical
when I can see
with my mind
that physique begets you?
I mean that which is
concealed
in your grey matter
no one but you can see.
That this frame
is lent
for three score and ten;
perhaps four
not by strength but clemency;
and farewell to this prime flesh
you must some day bid?
So ask I one more time,
dear me,
with twisted lips
what, watery clay,
are you concealing,
and what do you now know?
Well, now it’s so crystal
I can see the light: you mean,
have I numbered those scores,
before priding in the flesh
to count them
to make each count?
My God! Have I?