[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.