Melted likeness
in the mountain’s

like the prophet
in a crust of bread,

to the face in the brain

that is part idolatry,
part will to survive.

We use it to find
our parents first,

the food that is rooted
in gazes returned.

Then come the faces in faces
imposed by loneliness,
an old friend found
in a stranger’s nod

providing a foothold
in foreignness.

Is there a moral
lowness in this clinging?

No fresh greeting is uttered.

These faces are the grasses
that weave underfoot,
slicked down by forward motion.

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