Turn Your Face To Him Poem by James McLain

When it is universal
between we are human.
Everyone but they I suppose.
In conscience simply we do repose.

Almost it is to easy
to hide from him her this one fact.
That it is was never a bird conscience freed.
The empty nest that is you.

The sun does not hesitate and, the other people
for all bloodedness
where you are cool under any condition
it does not face either of him
your cravings by guilt or modest shame.

The ice water that is your red vain.
It is to some thing very queer,
an erruption
so completely outside that very thing
and the private experience
which those almost do not presume
in your now currant state.