Poem whose volume contains attenuated pause

By | 1 May 2021

If to care means look closely, then streetscape
here—you tell it—every gaze within the frame
a tangent line in Euclidean space,
not a single gaze intersecting another’s face
(except the one looking across this flattened
plane bent on asking) what in Godot’s name
are we all waiting for?
The crowded pause
does not reply, but its bodies do, or seem to.
Hands pocketed, arms crossed, what to
make of the bright white lines
whose oblique lapels & collars sweep
like arrows the civil gaze to inwardly
blank cross-purpose?
Unselfconsciousness poses,
unaware perhaps of being viewed,
yet plainly skewed
by the scrutiny of nails, whose shape
suggests no palpable social answer.
Misery walks on certain faces. The body
parses a precise language of anonymity
and rubs against, not quite touching,
perhaps about to,
some muted aggregation, a poly-
synthetic future, you and you,
whose determined lack can’t come
quick enough, god help us, in buffed
monochrome, absently milling
history’s streets, hands kept idle
in careful cuffs.

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