Smooth Were Faces

Smooth were faces then
when the world was on edge
and the angle of a thousand city blocks
interesected the morning air.
The walk was good, hard, long
from curbs and abutted walls
to paths unwound by afternoon
in smooth and fresh-combed hills.
There, evening falls in seamless folds
and I, 
in wrinkled garments 
that can't be shed, 
now stroll.
  


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