Nothing’s Safe from Faces

Nothing’s safe from faces.

Everything’s personified.
Progressions of expressions
of the human
bloom in forms

and ride through spaces –
Mother Nature, Father Time –
we don’t see anything
that doesn’t rhyme with us.
Perhaps we shouldn’t fuss.

"God’s a man."
What else could patriarchal
primates understand?
But some suggestion presses –
seems to lie beneath

familiar skin – morphology
that’s not tautology:
as if the answer isn’t in
the things we think it’s in.
There’s an allure to shape

and hue in which the human
image can’t entirely construe
itself, secure its being.
Nothing might be
what we’re seeing.





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