Spring 1981 • Vol. III No. 2 Poetry |

Face

   Touch that deep-printed diaper, pattern of garden, park, soft as a clump of leaves,    on this paperback's cover, and you'll untangle a face, extradimensional.    Store fronts, sidewalks are swept and clean; keep an eye on the ground; musing, I walk ten steps    —gravel, insects—when suddenly I spot an object. It lies upside down: oval brooch,    gold frame holding a cameo; turn it: monochrome, flesh; luminous, queenly face,    serious, grown, and yet subtly young, eyebrows, nose, finely cut; beauty, intelligence.    Wonder now who the victim of loss or theft could have been (mugging? a broken chain?);    with that brooch in my palm, I stare off toward far streets, I see. Solid pedestrians    don't go staring at strangerfolk (too preoccupied); most innocent citizens    see no beauty, no softer face (none by split-second glance) than my bijou showed me.    In thick crowds, under traffic light

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