If I could only sand it down --
my life --
as I sand down this oval table,
rubbing away for good
the scratches
and the stains.
I sand the table:
through the dust I see
the veins
the heart
the flesh of the new wood.
My life I cannot sand.
The scratches
in the memory stay,
they show
in forehead and in eye,
and all that I can do
is to veneer
or varnish on the top,
to hide the surface
from the underneath.