Big Eraser

A car-sized nib
parts the
clouds sometimes,
pink and headed
downwards,
seeking terrain full
of sketching.
Nobody’s looking as
it brushes
out some details,
scrubs clean some
events.

You’ll only notice as
their gummy ashes
scatter or you
scramble over
indentations
in the paper—
troughs of you don’t
know what,
like new creases on
your forehead.

The other Creation of Adam
painted
only in the
Sistine Chapel’s cracks,
God’s pink fingertip as
the wrong
end of a pencil stick—
stopping reading
something then
soon forgetting
what it meant.