I walk past the April Maple,
so full of sparrows
it seems the leaves sing,
onto the parking lot by the hardware.

It's a cloudy morning.

I ask: what did my face look like
before my parents met?

(the sound of a hand clapping)

the full circle of the sky stirred my hair.

I could see behind my head.

I laughed.

. . . what does my face look like now?

Steven Fortney

Milkweed Chronicle, Vol. 3, No 1/2, Minneapolis, MN, Spring/Summer 1982 Sandscript, East West A Poetry Annual, Vol. I, Cape Cod Writers, December 1992
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