I woke up from a harder bed,
before the world started stirring,
before the argent rays of sunlight
gently pulled the curtains fully up.
Dimmed-out lamps and lanterns lined
unlit, in alcoves left and right,
up on posts, or overhead,
while fountains still in morning calm
washed the stone with watered white.
Radiant gray concrete lay beneath
my standing feet upon the blocks
beside the empty tarmac paths
beside the tranquil, shining baths.
I heard a jet plane's roaring engines,
filling up the morning air;
looking heavenward to search
the deep and unconfused blue sky
and place the sound, I saw a bird,
perched upon a brown brick wall.
Faces pass, are passing by, with
features I don’t recognize as
well as I would with better-focused eyes.
What is a face but an arrangement of parts,
in a medium that seems not still to stir my heart?
Faces become nothing more to me now.
A smile there is all I see,
there a jaw or cheekbone or a wrinkled nose,
and other sundry pieces of debris.
What is a face but an arrangement of parts,
and other sundry pieces of debris,
features I don’t recognize as
people?
Faces pass, are passing by, with
there a jaw or cheekbone or a wrinkled nose.
Faces become nothing more to me now.
People?