What moments my face etches within itself
are not those of my choosing:
what lands upon me and inscribes itself
is not often recognized when it comes.

If the air were as acidic as these impressions suggest,
I’d have been liquid long ago
and would long ago have soaked invisibly away
into the earth, most likely leaving no trace.

Only a mirror away is an understanding
of this erosion and resculpting, yet rarely do I look
at one.  I keep myself rigid and blind,
stare ahead thinking of how much I’d love to melt away.