faces
Anthony Liccione
rare and raw
looking to find fault-
world pressed of pressure,
faces of every size, sex
colorless like drizzle drops
of rain on the window clinging
aloof with no where to go
but a car windshield,
a tear of water inches
down connecting like dot-
to-dots growing bigger,
when the arm of God
swishes through-
like lightning, merciless
swiping the slate of glass
clean of his creation
