Fugue For Toy Piano

To be old then, is this:
Now is no more the edgy blade;
The blood moves more deeply in the runs of flesh
Down, down where the bone lurks and does not bend.
(Softly sweet with incomplete furtherings
And fanfares -- wrongly right.)
The happy horoscope of hell
Comes full at night in the smothering dark
And light breaks in saving, safe, salvation.
Here I am here.
Here I abide.
Here I linger along the long lonely
Clavicle and scapula
(Humerus, radius, ulna)
In their antique speculation,
Splendid in their august equilibrium.
All the tomorrows
Have become yesterdays and
What remains is a generous
Sublimation of eternity.
No more the rush.
No more the pull.
Still and silent in the unmoving air;
Cold, where there is no push of days;
Deeply honied by the savage remnants
Of happiness, never lost.