(after Imtiaz Dharker’s ‘Canvas’)
Do I want another face?
Sometimes I do.
A face no longer disfigured
by need. A face you can turn
inside out like a sock,
never knowing the difference
between surface and interior,
soft as old wool, implacable
as peace, the fibres accustomed
to concavity,
to disuse. Accustomed
to my absence.