Inner turbulence:  a good thing
Early on, but then it gets tired.
The play of the passions peters out
Like a dog in its day, leaving a haze
Of humor, a shelf of required
Readings for the recently retired—
Anger spent, as judiciousness prevails
And the Kindly Ones supplant the Furies.
My brother, my double, myself—
Can’t you see where this tends?
It tends towards something vanishingly
Small, inviolate and unperturbed, that begins
Where it ends:  towards the sense of a life
Brought to life; towards the irreducible
Self waiting there at the center of its world.