I have worn everything you gave me –
The ring, of course, and that absurd string of beads
Reaching to the navel, and your battered shirts
Full of your energy and our many conjunctions.
And I have worn myself – this body, your tent
Of contentment, once your second skin,
Shrunk now, but serviceable, not yet for the scrap-heap.
I have worn, almost to shreds, our tatty jokes,
Ludicrous memories, and our crumpled rags
Of rhythm and phrase, – old hat, but comfortable.
Everything has been worn, nothing worn out.