You are every cat you curse at.
Curling in close, you can see
a brief cascade of imperfection
in the baroque mesh of the iris,
a bump in the blade-shaped pupil,
as if forged by a drunken blacksmith.
You are ready to operate,
but your hand are covered with moss
from the rotting log that covers your face,
and you wonder why the larvae aren't pearls.
A little poetography and geometry with humans, two themes in one. Lovely elongated portrait composition with that magic number of three focal points. A chance encounter about to happen?
The guy has a seriousness about him that the others don’t have, like he’s just dropped in from another century to acheive some important quest. Love the compo here and the three apparently different stories.