In the mornings
when I’m alone
sometimes I pray
accidentally.

When the rain
sounds like children
folding and unfolding
paper. My whole world
is a fish that swims away.

The wrinkles are not like skin,
but I still feel like I’ve pulled
a face over my body. They
can’t have it back, because
I’ve gotten used to it.
I kind of like it.
I like the warmth, and the eyes.
I am particularly fond of the eyes.

When the car alarms were
the symphony of downfall
and the metaphor of my nightmare.
I could hoist the face
on a headboard mast.

The wind would climb through
those eyes. Those fine eyes.
I would sink into the cold of hope.