Poem: Faces

 

Faces

 

when they move

liquid origami,

not so nude as glass.

thin-skinned secrets

tucked in ovals,

fanning out

from the big top of the nose.

 

when they perform

 

werewolves,

such medeas and mercurios,

swelling up supple, sexy in the chase

only to collapse

from brow to brow.

 

the craft of a wrinkle

strains at their leashes.

the tug of a tiny vein.

a blush of eyelid.

 

when they talk

 

chins reel

from the muddlesome task of words,

which stumble, even when true.

curves scrunch into safety nets,

desperate weaves of rotes and vogues.

 

when pushed

 

they parachute

down into seas of what-abouts and thens,

never quite able to float where they land,

or go deeper,

or rise up again.

 

 

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