Face lifts

Curls of wood evenly glazed
Away from my arms
Tufts of air disguised as breeze
Gently tugging at sleeves
Mind struggling to remember
Some profound piece of poetry
That some well-read beard face
Stoically said was good!

Awake, not really,
Sleep not yet percolated into
The abyss of mind
It has not even seeped out.
Wetting the pillow on the other side.

Like I said, a few lines, years ago:
Curls of wood
Fall off every now and then.
As the planer glides by.

Leaving a smooth glossy finish,
Sophisticated.
Maybe a coat of varnish
And the sheen will be permanent.
Who says facelifts are difficult.
14/4/03