I see the recollection
of a thousand and one memories
in the faces of strangers.

It is written
in the burnt out shellac
that write's the gospel
called ideal.

Upon all the waifs
that wail
on wainscotted walls
is visible a weary shade -
A woe begotten word.
That same ink
that wrote the scar
on a thousand and one faces.

It shone to eyes
of the right size
calibrated to the light
by a snowflake.

And once seen
O misbegotten dream!
Hours of amphetamine rooftops
under golden stars.
Mornings alight
with the free realm of jazz
which floats on hazy gaze
that constitute fields
of a thousand and one degrees.

Now not seen.

And is it carved
in the sweaty freedom
of a drunk?
Constellating crystal beads
pour to eyes
gray and sunk
with the wisdom of a prince.
With the stench of a skunk.

Brace yourself
for the wind does come
that marries wind
of heart and mind.

And behind it all
you see it now;
in the thousand and one faces
of the free
the bold
the meek
the drunk
the lost.

The recollection
of a thousand and one memories.