Wrinkles
Rodger LeGrand
​
Spotted mirror flecked
with toothpaste shrapnel,
shows a face that feels borrowed.
Lines zag-a-zig it
like the muddy worm-pathed underside
of a rock, a map of caribou trails
mazing through Alaskan forests.
I tip the hour glass back to gargle
and choke my throat with sand.
Time settles where it settles—our faces,
hands, memories. Dashed lines,
second hand ticks burn into the skin
around my squinting eyes
as though branded.
Is this a clock face
looking back at me?
Is that the hour hand
edging forward as I scrape
the razor along my chin,
the early morning dance
of running out of time?