Inside every one of us is a dead pitcher
looking in for signs.
This somehow makes us honest.

All of our bad habits nest in our tissue
like moths in wool.
Such a soft relenting place, tissue.

Everything comes to bear:
child-bearing, love-making, hate-making, dinner-making.
Wake up in the morning and you know yourself.

Stiff, shadowy
looking for a catcher
you can trust.