When You See Faces

I walk past a bench where sits a man,
His face upon which troubles ran
Some years ago, now, I presume,
And hard to be, now, to exhume.
But rivulettes they make in sweat,
E’en in the cold they steam and let
A past not known to be by men
Of passing eye nor askance yen.

I imagine he has tales to tell,
Of things one couldn’t even sell,
If thawed from frozen tongue it could
be vented, and, without, it would
Grab passers-by, and bleed their ears
Of long-lost tempts from yonder years.
And learned men would burst to tears
At resolution of their fears
Made solid by this lonesome man
By which there used their troubles ran.


Between Blinks

Did you look at any of these persons?
Yes, three or four.
And may I ask how they seemed to you?
Quite pleasant.
Yes. I’ve heard that.
Who are they?

Did you speak to any of these people?
Yes, two or three.
And may I ask how they talked to you?
Quite sweetly.
Yes, that happens.
Do they sing?

Did you touch any of their bodies?
Yes, one or two.
And why did they feel good to you?
Do they feel?

You fell in love with one of these creatures?
Yes, half in love.

You would become one of these things?