Steam-surging out of their factory,
rising up high from their genesis spot,
four of six faces look right into me,
the other two clearly will not.
This is as close as I’ll probably get
to what brings on this onset of faces
who daily beset me so I might beget
their effects on a white paper’s spaces –
I’ve as much clue of the what and the who
of the four who looked into my eyes
as I have of the psyches of those other two
who will never give up their disguise.
If a disguise it is, in fact: to think
I could know a damned thing but what I
might decide in a poem might blink
in their presence and not be a lie –
you can see why my mind goes numb.
And when I reflect on the spirit and letter
Of people I know, I’m equally dumb.
I don’t know any of them any better.