The second half of my life will be black

    to the white rind of the old and fading moon.

    The second half of my life will be water

    over the cracked floor of these desert years.

    I will land on my feet this time，

    knowing at least two languages and who

    my friends are. I will dress for the

    occasion， and my hair shall be

    whatever color I please.

    Everyone will go on celebrating the old

    birthday， counting the years as usual，

    but I will count myself new from this

    inception¹， this imprint² of my own desire.

    The second half of my life will be swift，

    past leaning fenceposts， a gravel³ shoulder，

    asphalt tickets， the beckon⁴ of open road.

    The second half of my life will be wide-eyed，

    fingers shifting through fine sands，

    arms loose at my sides， wandering feet.

    There will be new dreams every night，

    and the drapes will never be closed.

    I will toss my string of keys into a deep

    well and old letters into the grate.

    The second half of my life will be ice

    breaking up on the river， rain

    soaking the fields， a hand

    held out， a fire，

    and smoke going

    upward， always up.