To Whom It May Regard

Here, the moaners, faces stretched like masks
And white as paint wear the cistern on their feet
To fill it with their tears. I see of all forms fashioned
From the template like an after-thought, in each a hymn
To difference widening or lengthening and dressed
In every color I can tell -- but always the same meager bodies
Slumped in trespass of the cleft, rounding and stumbling
The deep, dim distance while a star calls and a fire sets.