This one dates to my adolescence. I think it was published in our college literary magazine.
Faces
Floating fragments of memory tease my mind.
Your many faces are arranged
and rearranged before my mind’s eye.
I am never sure who you really are.
But real is an arbitrary root
over which I stumble like an infant
over nothing really.
Love is only real.
But you have really never Loved and
God is Love, and Lord knows,
He’s not in vogue this year in abstract time,
when like a child’s useless toy
the windup clock is pounding away fractions
of something that can have no whole.
by Terrell Shaw
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