writ on the eve of my 32nd birthday
a slow thoughtful spontaneous poem

I am 32 years old
and finally I look my age, if not more.
Is it a good face what's no more a boy's face?
It seems fatter. And my hair,
it's stopped being curly. Is my nose big?
The lips are the same.
And the eyes, ah the eyes get better all the time. (...)

I remember my 31st year when I cried:
"To think I may have to go another 31 years!"
I don't feel this way this birthday.
I feel I want to be wise with white hair in a tall library
in a deep chair by a fireplace.
Another year in which I stole nothing. (...)

I love poetry because it makes me love
and presents my life.
And of all the fires that die in me,
there's one burns like the sun;
it might not make day my personal life,
my association with people,
or my behavior toward society,
but it does tell me my soul has a shadow.

(Gregory Corso)