How Smokes the Smolder

at neck, at
shoulder, that

stokes a man
as he grows

older. Nothing
rages, nothing

fumes. No one
races through

the rooms,
alarmed. How

casually he's
armed. How

gradually arises
what surprises

in his mirrors.
Unawares, as

fall runs colder,
pulls he only

slightly tighter
his good wool

sweater, thinner
than ever now

at elbow,
at shoulder.