The face beneath my hand begins to form
and loom and linger – reveal to my
interrogating fingers a warm woman’s
deep-set slightly bulging eyes, strong
bones. Innumerable tones of delicate soft
skin spread over broadly planar architecture:
brow and cheeks and chin – a Celtic melting
sensitivity blooms on a set and settled
frame: she has no name. Is she Irish,
French? Whence comes her fine distracted
mind, intelligence? What’s in its guarded
stream? She is more vivid than a dream.
She is her eyes: their ineradicable ambiguity,
disguise. I know nobody who could be her.
I guess she’s come so I could see her.
.
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