a man is holding a small, misshapen book of the past, whose stories will ruin hours, ruin days––stories to be read only with hesitation, as when caught in fog or drizzle––and when he opens the book, a photograph falls from its pages—small, blurred with what seems like sadness:  he thinks he can discern the face of jesus, whose inner darkness threatens the fortunate world—and also falling from the book, falling to mind, his faith:  not faith as against nothingness, or faith in nothing's own impermanence—and the air on that morning, turbulent and clear, in itself calling down the permanent crisis of experience:  the patterns of doubt that have the precision of slender errors, accumulating—a man is holding a small, misshapen book of the past, whose covers hold the face of the ancestors dreaming a different present than this one:  the past that chases us, whose chase we are––a dead thing blown live in the stopped hour—
The photographs for The Face of Jesus were made in 2015 in the Pałacu Biskupa Erazma Ciołka in Kraków, Poland; the poem was written in Philadelphia and Kraków in 2012.
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