The Ancient Hinge

A Poem by Kyle Walsh

We carry our fathers,
old men withering,
to places-of-honor: high chairs
'round which people gather,
paying ruedspect by face,
then, wrenching their hearts in
twists of horror,
drip onto Fate.

Through the night the central space
holds fast its bastioned curve;
young revelers berth
the old men watching
from shadows drawn,
eyes obscured.

Come morning, come rest!
finds young revelers lain in rows
and old men dust.
The dew wakes and stirs the air.
No one flows.
For from the forms of aged bowed
flee arrows dearly fringed
to dash upon an earthern heat
and redden the ancient hinge.