The Foul Rag and Bone Shop of the Heart

That's what Yeats said in "The Circus of Animals" about being old. The line came to mind while reading a review of the most recent biography about Yeats: W.B. Yeats A Life, Volume 2: The Arch-Poet, 1915-1939. I like Yeats even though I'm constantly struggling against the voice influence of his later poems. Against his images, too: "How can you tell the dancer from the dance?"

Many of Yeats later poems were paper poems about an eager mind trapped in a reluctant body. What does a poem about the same topic written for the white space of the screen look like? I don't think I've found it, yet. I think instead the dance we see on the screen is the same dance we see on paper. The same poem.