Faces jerk from eye to eye
flattened by the lens,
a jumble of twisting facets
close in London’s underground.

Far off, on creamy sand ,
shuffled by careless breeze
featureless pancakes thrown up
by a gossiping tide,

and in the glittering street
a smile, or grimace, breaks
on a blank lozenge of light
among watery crowds.

We must link them, draw lines
fit curve to curve, to nose, to chin
for the comfort of knowing
“he is like his uncle Jack”.


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