There are days blurred

There are days blurred like the skin

of fruit rotting, when we look into the water

and cannot tell if the dark stripes

shuddering over the surface

are the reflections of street lamps

or just our shadows. Such days

do not have matching nights, unless

they are white nights, but then

each night is crossed out

by the black stroke of a morning

where a dead man lies on a table,

already a stranger, like a

simple object at which a child

peers through a rolled up notebook page,

willing it further and further away.

You wake and press your face

to the plaster, folding your hands

on your lap, your starched sheet,

a prayer passing from your cheek

to the wallpaper. No, you are not

God’s favorite doll. We open and close

our eyes for Him dutifully, but He

only uses us for our ability to forget.



** **