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The face is a mask over a mirror.
What are we looking for? What seeking?
Each of us twists like a haunted river,
Nor do we linger over another's grieving.
Tell me of yourself, that I might become clearer;
Your words are my eyes, your passion my breathing.
The face is a mask over a mirror.
What can I give you? What gleanings
Of yourself can my poor words deliver?
All poems: copyright by
Nicholas Gordon
Free scrapbook poems
permission to use
provided by the author. |
