The street plays at angles, documentary style,
a composite and a surveillance.
Faces in the ideas of images begin to appear
and reappear, feels like seeing shapes in clouds,
patterns in the wind, the apprehension of a vast conspiracy.
These beautiful faces you see
young no matter their biology,
abducted and raised in utopian theories and released,
burdened with every tale, every tale to them
a history and a precognition.
They have all the allowances granted by
all the world's mythologies.
They are to be revered and feared and allowed
as artists, burdened with the need to tell every tale for themselves,
to be allowed the chance to tell every tale for themselves.
Encounters will be subtle at first.
Imagine watching a movie, late night television,
when the moon has come and swallowed the light
and the population and the noise, like a trance.
That sound coming from the kitchen, that erratic and faint sound,
could be them and the beginnings of contact.
Or the wait for your friend to answer the door
after you've knocked, an erratic sound.
These ways to give you pause or make you attend.
They will come like this.
They will come like love, cloaked in glamours,
appear in the possibility of love.
Like looking into her eyes, across the crowded room
and the subjectivities and histories, and holding the gaze,
and suddenly your thoughts have rhythm and purpose,
as an actor making dialogue live.
The desperation and desire condensed into such a fragility of biology,
this meeting of eyes, the mathematics of the moment
like an equation of astronomy, something improbably but powerful.
