those men

I miss faith's visits; those men,
like soldiers, marching, without warning
into the rooms of my house.
They mess things up; take
 my carefully constructed
delusions, peering at them for cracks.
Hold them casually like old vases,
leaving oily spots with their
dirty hands.

I always protest, I am not myself
today but maybe I am really
myself, maybe the part I don't like
or have trouble seeing. I allow them to stay
sometimes, find some excuse to stand
close, smelling cold outside
air and breathing in their confidence;
my medicine for fear.