The Walking Face

Slowly, pass down
the street. Give regard
to material: concrete,
asphalt, crushed rock;
to push down, these 
and more heated 
concoctions must
be pulled into stasis
service. Building is
a paradox of buildings,
contradicted at every
ninety degree turn by
a curved, locked door. 
Smiles and furrows 
frown at concentration,
and so the walker dons
a graceful, elegiac whimsy,
flimsy as to be breeze-
blocked, dim as a nine
o'clock horizon.