Everything that grows old
by eric j. silverman
Gradually forgets
asleep in his chair
giving way to tinnitus
the voices of angels singing through a sprinkler
Fighting age, jogging the empty
OuterSunset
Swimming, along the beach, pre-empted by
a daily walk
My father’s whiskered shadow
from the white room above
the bathroom mirror
the kind of order that deposits
driftwood
and here, a blanched hue of stone.
A native of New York, Eric “E.J.” Silverman is a poet and novelist who lives with his wife and daughter in San Francisco.