Some sort of godlike being,
Gold and gossamer looking out for me.
A foreign, sunrise stillness,
Benevolence to blame when things go wrong.


Looking at every tiny scrap as a keepsake,
I’m collecting tattered ticket stub sentiments.
Dead plants and bygone birthday cards,
Graced with nostalgic fingerprints of ghosts.


Getting the spoon to my mouth without spilling any milk,
A youthful fearlessness fills me.
Curved back of infancy at the garage-sale table
Stomach aches faked and teeth lost in toast.