I had forgotten what she looked like,
hadn’t seen her for a while and she had come apart.
What’s there? Her dresses
the way she turns pages
Mostly fractured, broken, fading: The face,
a study in the way we forget.
Chuck Close deconstructs faces because
he can’t see them.
Her face distills like that from disuse,
I find her pieces in my pockets,
in the wrinkles of my bed sheets,
the holes for cuff-links in dress-shirts.
She peeks through my blinds,
She peeks from all the places of my
When I notice her, she turns away.
Close then refashions faces
in layered rectangles of unexpected shades:
green, pink, blue, orange.
I haven’t found the wormhole to her bedroom,
her table, her spaces
in order to see her whole.
Matter warps that geometry.
So I try to piece her together like he would.
I snatch at fragments
to repaint her also,
in fewer dimensions, with more colors.