all faces are accidents
all faces are accidents;
accidents have faces.
the spilled milk has eyes,
the spilled ink has eyes,
the paint spatters in the sink
are a nose, a mouth, a hairline.
I saw Charlemagne in the dirt on the floor
I saw Mark Twain swirl in the stream
I saw Hank in the bottom of a glass
I saw the face of the girl I
loved when I was fifteen, hundreds of times
that year;
her face where her face belonged,
above her neck; floating as we
walked together,
but never near enough to touch.
I cannot see her face
with my eyes closed
anymore.
some things are lost to me
even when I’ve put them
in my pocket,
the faces of dear ones.
three lines on the paper
a smear of gesso on the canvas
suggest the faces,
the accidental faces,
the faces I search for
to fill holes in my memory.
all faces are accidents
of time and circumstance
all accidents have faces
caught,
then lost to chance.
William Jamieson (he/him/his) writes, paints, and creates music in a basement a few miles west of Baltimore, Maryland. He occasionally comes out to breathe fresh air and cook meals. He can be found on Instagram @another_lousy_tourist.