Gone are the days
　　when you could walk on water.
　　When you could walk.
　　
　　The days are gone.
　　Only one day remains,
　　the one you're in.
　　
　　The memory is no friend.
　　It can only tell you
　　what you no longer have:
　　
　　a left hand you can use,
　　two feet that walk.
　　All the brain's gadgets.
　　
　　Hello, hello.
　　The one hand that still works
　　grips, won't let go.
　　
　　That is not a train.
　　There is no cricket.
　　Let's not panic.
　　
　　Let's talk about axes,
　　which kinds are good,
　　the many names of wood.
　　
　　This is how to build
　　a house, a boat, a tent.
　　No use; the toolbox
　　
　　refuses to reveal its verbs;
　　the rasp, the plane, the awl,
　　revert to sullen metal.
　　
　　Do you recognize anything? I said.
　　Anything familiar?
　　Yes, you said. The bed.
　　
　　Better to watch the stream
　　that flows across the floor
　　and is made of sunlight,
　　
　　the forest made of shadows;
　　better to watch the fireplace
　　which is now a beach.