Contours For Gazing
He's the look of one who cuts his own hair.
The scar between his ears, broad,
stretches contours for gazing.
One cannot think ill of him who now
eschews any man with blade or shears,
his face is proof enough not to trust.
Still, he walks upon the world, a gash in air
which does not care for looks of any sort.
Frightened children do not cry out though
their play is stopped. Bullies cross the street,
heads low in leather, trying to be invisible.
Dogs suddenly silence remembering to
quickly go where their tucked tails point
Nothing can undo a look which undoes many.
He carries his book, large, heavy,
front cover turned into his tweed,
tucked under his arm, something
he can hide while the title he is screams.
He, like the dogs, is silent, he needs
speech no longer. People have not heard
him when he once did speak, do not hear
the loneliness, the moan his face has become
which is large, Biblical in proportion to
the grief he tucks beneath the other arm
and wishes no harm to the world.
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