Through the only eye that he can move himself

he looks at the wall clock.

Looking a long time is staring.

Yep.

With one side asleep.

God believes in the morning and the morning believes in him

so he still believes in God.

Morning is beautiful.

He talks to himself.

The round band-aid slips underneath the bed from his hand.

With the only arm that he can move himself

he flaps his arm trying to grab it.

Tennis balls roll all the way home

and get cuts in the shape of crosses.

Six dining room chairs.

Four legs a piece.

Twenty-four tennis balls in total.

There’s a nine-year-old autistic boy

who sticks the balls on and pulls the balls off the chair legs.

In the evening he grows a new white beard on his chin.

With the only foot that he can move

he kicks the blanket but it doesn’t fall off.

It’s stuck.

Hey hat. Bye hat.

The hat in the air hasn’t found its face yet.

Snow

heavy and waiting with pouting lips.

Snow falls

all night like it’s some kind of a big deal.

Snow gets bigger in the cold, snow grows on the

snow stuck on the window panes.

Daybreak shaking the white bed sheets after pulling them out of a cabinet.

Who is it?

I heard it could only be a mask with a long arm

that can close that eye.