These are folded. They fit into their sheathe
Of hardened leather. They’re too tiny
For myself, even my face, a small face,
A face that can’t grow beards and blushes easy.
But a smaller face than mine
Fit these. These are my childhood’s. They close,
They make a perfect *click*, like calling
On a waiter in the old days. They open and
It is my childhood face.
That was a page-blank world. Here they are in my hands
Having a tantrum like a stubborn little boy:
Their folded arms
Refusing to serve anything.