About the eyes, thought bursts 
like mortar fire in the dark; 
the brow furrows 
but you cannot fix its peak 
which crests and reforms 
beyond the farthest 
horizon you can imagine. 

At his temple, a hollow, 
an invitation where 
my mind rests on air, strokes 

lines and rough surfaces - 
yet this face grows palpable 
in my hand, a cheek's 
downward slope and minutiae of skin, 
a map to his mouth that parts 

in recognition. We met here once before.