years from now I dislodge a mask
kneeling in a gas station parking lot
to suck crumbs from the consoles
half in and half out the passenger seat
I dislodge a mask from the floormat
flattened and streaked, folded on itself
like a wounded bird but still
retaining its feather-blue tint
ear straps flung aside like broken wings
its sunken breast smudged
where I once pressed my mouth
the downy screen through which
I filtered my life, where my words were
wrung out and carried off as on a soft wind
a dirty plume that held prayers
and songs and desperate transactions
where I said even I love you
in a muffled tone, where I said even
I’m home! standing in the doorway
forgetting, for a brief moment, which
were the safer parts of the world