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.
A place for my poems 