He hopes for a face
in the face he sees, and turns
from the window as from
simple distraction—a screen,
a page, something told
in a voice he might have loved
but never did. Illumination.
Lamplight. Dusk. All mere emblems
of some other thing. He barely
remembers the house, though he lived
there as a boy. The woman whose
face looks back at him could be someone
he has known, could be a stranger,
a random mover-in where once he stood
and watched the seasons turn. Winter
to spring and on to fall. All of it
going. All of it gone. Is this woman
even one of his own? Light fails
while he looks. Indigent, like as not.  
He might as well be moving on. She looks
like a stranger. He can’t be sure.
He draws the shades against the night—
All he can see. All he’s seen.