A face in a
window
told me all
I needed to know
about age.
The
colourlessness, darkness,
confinement.
A face that
stared through me,
that saw or
not,
cared not ─
blank as its
countenance ─
for all that
moved.
A face
on a
north-facing window-sill,
turned
outward
for that day
toward the
sun on the other side.
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