He looks as though he hasn’t slept
in weeks, the brown glass eyes softly sad,
the skin beneath folded and sagged.
He wasn’t meant to be seen
from such an unnatural angle,
we down here gazing at him
up there above us on the wall.
We want to reach up and rub his chin.
We want to toss a hat onto his horn.
Sweetness, all sweetness he is,
like a great, wrinkled gray rose,
with a shark’s fin for a thorn.
