It was his first
Gingerly little chain-
Sawing, a ring too tight,
Which had been on
Since eighty-two,
The year he was born.
“It grows,” he showed me,
“Like a tree,” the finger
Around the constriction.
“Yes,” I said, “look how much
| You grew in eighteen years.
No wonder I can’t
Twist it free.” His eyes
Worked nervously,
Yet, his hands calm, it fell
Open in three seconds.
Just takes a spinning
Wheel in a crescent
To cut through
Shackles of gold.
This, I know, will
Be encouraging for him.
He’ll remember it
Tonight. He’ll be able
To refer to it
For the rest of his memory,
As a first, succinct and civil, his role
As the sunspot that nipped the glare,
A severance attained
With perfect sympathy.
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