I dream trash, of old
hags in my decrepitude.
I dream of flesh sallow
and loose on the bone,
skin that is barnacled and so
thin and wrinkled, it may
tear. I find a life that is
lost among the deposits
of its dementia, an incurable
disease that ages not like
wine but like old grapes
rotting on the vine. Of this
affliction, I dream and of
what is happening to me.