faces
like knots on a diseased oak,
we huddle together
not like rotten planks
of a fallen floor
but rather
like something alive;
apples in a farmer’s market
or flowers
gasping from a pavement crack,
hands
reaching towards God
and grasping the crossbar,
eyes dodging from faces
or staring at them openly,
minds on work
or the press
or some drifting zephr memory;
a million infinities
touching eachother uncomfortably,
as many as there are fish in the sea,
and all on their way to somewhere,
and all with something unshareable in their heart