I look upwards at an inclining shadow. At once
there is a bodily presence, but also the sun
to cause my vision to blear.
In each blink, stained red as wine
the image of the person before me.

There was once a face that could be there,
that I could envision before
I would awaken, I suppose.
The old wisdom chalks it up
to little else than the passing of age.
But even so I find myself wanting.

To imagine is to want,
the very act a concession.

But what is it to imagine, whether
in constant or in the present moment,
a certain shape,
a certain articulation,
like coordinates on a map,
the face of another I have long since forgotten?