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Poem: Method Aging 

It seems I've mastered posing,

the deceitful practice of photography

and staying in front of the artist's keen eye.

I've also mastered speech, grasped

nuances of despair and the necessary

arm-flailing to make myself believable.

No worries about aging, no fears

of splicing scenes into another world,

I'm left with only one question:

When will your eyes lift, film me as old?

I never expected to look this way,

neck rough and snakelike, legs

hairless as a Sphynx cat.

Does love only see love

through a special Shakespearean lens?

Now I realize that's one question—

much too hard to frame—

gently set aside for another shoot.

  • A poem by Perry Nicholas.


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