I had a conversation with your face—in my mind—
It is the face, not the conversation, that is kind.
Conversation can laugh, but it has to use tears.
I would rather talk with your face. All the years
That took to make it! Slaughtered armies, forsaken,
Fell in green valleys generations and generations
Before, when your ancient ancestors, startled in peace,
Made confident in building, soothed in war,
Came away sorrowful, by the inspiring spring
Where one drowned once—the waters raged
In love—the god loved those waters more
In the darkness, and the dark hair and eyes,
Practiced to be beautiful among sad cries.
Today, when I glimpse your face which talks
To me instantly, fed by the historical years
Of a story and humor and its grotesques,
Seeking the escape from facts and oozing tears,
My soul cries out inside where I recognize
The something of your face and the everything of your eyes.
It is a waste to explain how your sweetest face,
Dark hair, dark eyes, is a catastrophe for me, a place.
