Bent like
recycled plastic
in heat,
readying yourself
for the lines
soon to etch themselves
across your forehead,
around your eyes,
across the backs of your hands,
indeed,
along the walkway
of your silent reach
into an accelerated
nightmare,
a voluminous statement
of faith
in lost pilasters
erasing your thoughts
of evicting yourself
from time,
from the touch of
human hands.
