At 7 A.M. through Unkempt Glass
He named me but doesn’t know
my name. He kisses me but doesn’t
recognize the boy who shares
the angles of his cheeks. A dirty
window is the eye he uses now.
His own are distant, locked. Him
but not him. Not part of his face
any longer, they hang elsewhere
like a name on a shingle
dangling wooden in the wind
with no commotion. Severed from
the riot of morning, its frantic life.
His skin is the broken art of spiders,
mind the crumbled nestwork
of long gone wrens. Once
like my own, his folded hands
pray silently for oil. He has become
his new eye, fixed and unpolished.
And so much like the world
that new eye sees
with its permanent frame. Just
blur and twigs. Vague yet faithful
to the uncombed day.