Hard work to read it like that, but the effect is cool.
The poem is meticulous and poignant - but it appears effortless. It makes me think not only about the pathos of age, but about writing, especially poems: what sets a poem apart, if there is no form to signal it? What is the magic in the simplicity of this language that makes it so powerful where so many others fail?
This is, I think, an excellent poem for discussion. Thanks, Bartholomew.