The Face

It was only six years ago or seven:
I don’t remember anything
except that it happened.

They still write about it.
The florid prose that drips
down to the floor, pools,
and then trickles drainward.

The why of it. Certainly the how,
but the why has never been

But that too will drown
in shiftless dunes.
The wings, the toes,
and finally the face.