The faces with anticipated youth
look out from the current
identifications, judge or salesman,
the neighbor, the man who killed,
mattering only as the sliding world
they betoken, the time it never
mattered to accumulate, the fact that
nothing mattered but for what one
could make of it, some passing,
oblique pleasure, a pain immense
in its intensity, a sly but
insistent yearning to outwit it
all, be different, move far, far
away, avoid forever the girl
next door, whose cracked, wrinkled
smile will persist, still know you.
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