E. H.

behold the man

or not, stooped
between the fingered membranes
of a sprinkler gone awry,
his undigested tears
sizzling on
hot pavement, washed
from their proper place
as they should be?

behold the man.

an immortal contingent
belonging to no date or time
save the
grinding gasp of the
bus stop, 6:00 sharp
as his heartbeat, a
frozen pin drop
falling faster each
dizzy morning.

behold the man.

nursed in shadows, searching
the slick pinwheel of his
lost memories
in yearbooks
of different grades,
in different languages,
dimly recalled faces
colored differently
somehow made strange.

behold the man.

a huddled mass in an
office cubicle,
under an army tent
weighed down with the
products of his
own confusion,
asleep on a street
corner, a few discolored
quarters carrying him
on his way somewhere,

trying to find a mirror
clear enough
so he might
clearly,
for once
behold himself