Do you remember when the clouds
clapped for me? As I processed out
on shifting carpets of cinnamon sand,
the trumpets cawing paean anthems
at 20 ’til dawn? The glass rain enrobing me?
Mountains shooting up from awe?
—but my hair is grey and split now, isn’t it?
And my eyes narrower. My teeth brown. You can tell me.
Hell, what would God have with
a man who cannot keep his own hair
where it belongs?