"Faces 22"

"

Thick-headed;
If of blood were the tears we shed
the saline that falls away
Is deceptively gray.

While all the faces eyes' penetrate
your shameful desire placates your sight:
inadvertently you cut your eyes to spite your face.


Embedded somewhere within the veins are contours;
they are maps of bloodlines to gifts;
when old wounds the bad seeds of which start to be absolved,
newer perfumes fresher and resplendent of lust
go unattended
by shorter shrift.

Words could never malign;
the journey to the cross has us walking six feet apart at a safe distance.
No one is talking behind your back accept the last man in the procession
presiding over the refrain
As he is unburdended by
the journey that plays again.