All my unintentional misdoings
Are so eminently preventable
If each action perfectly, intently
Eschewed things that I reduce to fractions. 

Urgently manhandling reviewings
Mentally; they remain untenable.
Ever these distractions keep renewing
By tracts incensed and undependable.

They're queueing up, ready to force entry.
The ensuing chaos of reactions
And their extendable propensity
Is spent in full by folly's protractions.

Why do I hesitate;
Slabs of lead and slate.
No one buries curses
With my name inscribed.

The hand that waits rehearses 
The clock's gait; who's bribed?

And who will hear them crepitate,
These pages, my poor verses;
All that I cry imbibed
Like all that time disperses.

Nobody really knows who is wearing their face;
And mostly a face is an incognito space,
A nexus between two semipermeable
Worlds. The secret corridor of intimacy
Seems somewhat open, though never traversible
Wholly, and some steps taken unreturnable
Which I-feeling egos snatch impetuously.

Even in memory we toil to retrace
Infatuation, which leads along impishly
Via the blown kisses that we wish to see.

We can but trust the data our instruments seize,
Though we know people's facets interminable
With fluid, perhaps capricious, intricacy.