There are crisscrossed lines in pale
pink that mark out hard-earned parcels
on your skin, the seams of your muscles.
What else could ever seem as frail

as your eyes, or that face in which
I see the early plans of me
built up with pain and memory,
slow-moving tubes, brand new stitches.

Should I take comfort in the fact
that towns arise and cities fall,
that this will happen to us all?
How much I wish to take you back

to a place where you were younger–
to pictures where your eyes were clear,
before the lines and cracks appeared
and before you were a father.