The blanket-dust lifts like a sheet,
When I find my tatty chest,
Under lock and debris.
Yesterday seems as old as the wheel,
As I curtain my hair behind ears.
The key crepitates
within the metal juts and crevices.
With a final hissing crack,
It snaps,
And the golden hue
Of past,
It blinds,
With uninterrupted stares through beryl iris.
How something can disobey time and space
As it pleases,
I’ll never know.
But as it cuts through every age I’ve sewn,
And halves the height of grown,
And dyes my ego black and white,
I’m rerouted —
To a new me (or an old me?),
In every photo leering back.