Well Aligned

A series of facial expressions
caught in the crossfire of passing days.
When this all falls to dust
your eyelids, teeth, tongue, grimace
will be the things to remain;
the only way back into an old name.

The crossfire of passing days,
long-sought and linear:
a firing squad cut-out for pin-up calendars;
the only ring of bullets we would wish for our fingers.

When this all falls to dust and I to some forgotten side-dish,
an entree to a future of lessening,
to the gluttony of youth and clocks;
when this all falls, and the bottom is both closer
and harder than we thought,
we will find our final inklings
concerned only with the consistency of endings,
with the density of tarmac,
and in our being all wrapped up,
(once and for all)
without guilt,
in bits and pieces of ourselves.

Your eyelids, your teeth and your fingernails;
how I describe you.
I have forgotten how you called me, why I came.

The thing to remain is already without me;
I am a face in a picture, that I now look upon as child.

There is no way back into my old name.

Only serious facial expressions remain.