Your Physiognomies of Thought

 

Your physiognomies of thought

once brought you comfort:

back when you were sure

what faces meant and could secure

an explicative gestural expression

to each whim of yours –

each was purely good

or purely not; simple as a drop of ink

in milk to spot. But now the faces flood

ambiguously – and no set of eyes

apprises you of what it has in mind;

there’s nothing now to find. Strangely

though, you undergo no

crisis. The eyes are kind.










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