British Library Numbers
He looks like somebody’s nephew-in-law,
Not any closer to you or yours than
That, yet with darkness round the eyes as raw
As black eyes on an angel who began
In twelve-foundational Heaven but falls now
Through wounded space towards Dante’s nine-tiered Hell.
There’s something in the face, below the brow,
Of depressive bruises or, who can tell?,
Of dark delusions’ odors. Or am I
Transferring red and blue and green tattoo
On inner bicep to his brain, the dye
In skin unfairly moved to mind taboo?
His sober arms say, “No, there’s nothing weird.
I’m just a statistician in a beard.”