Seeing things
A day of seeing things not there,
realising this curve, that angle of light,
creates an impromptu face,
paints a smile in the floor, a wide eye by the door,
watched by a casting shade or sun on a wall
I saw a hundred times before.
Nothing I could point at,
draw round with pen,
trace with chalk or
my uncertain finger then,
hesitating at the juncture
of concrete, lips and the nose
I was sure of when I touched you
and said,
an imaginary sentence never used,
describing a face you could not see,
in the bricks near our house,
where we walk by, where I turn,
and ask about supper instead.
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