Behind him a brick wall drips with old colors,
He is facing West 82nd Street.
His lashes droop down, his eyes are closed.
All I can see is the blackness where his face was,
As if his face had been cut out of the brick
And the brick holds his face for me.
I stare, and the shadow stares ahead,
Daring me to remember the color of his eyes
The cut of his hair, his name.
Philip, I say to the picture,
Philip, with blue eyes.