A Philosopher Misses His Creator

Eye sockets pulsing
and eye hollows darkened
the philosopher kills the backlight,
feels the years fill his marrow with
goo that slimes and oozes
out in the form of eye
boogers that cling to old skin
the way a thirty-eight year old man
still needs flannel sheets tucked in
by his frame-hunched mother.

And the philosopher moans

while outside the wind blows
from down to up, lifting
snowflakes by its dint of touch,
each flake unique and
each one a created gift
as a higher order - the one
looking down at you right now -
does whatever can to prevent this
old man from peering
into the mirror

at his own eyes