In this time of the me I know people can walk right up to me, though this has only begun to happen since strands of my hair have turned shades of whitish grey and have congregated in clumps at my temples and sprinkled within the rest of my still dark mane, never as a younger man, and I don’t appear to care, since I’m in the midst of some inner bumfuzzlement I am transfixed by or do not seem to grasp.
It’s as if my sensate wiring overloads my brain and I don’t quite sort
as rapidly as
I’m in a shock to my system.
Any sorts of beauty or sound are my usual culprits.