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.

.