The Window

BY DEWITT BELL
I have come to Mexico City,
where I know no one,
to be insular
with the sea at my window —
I mean those faces
wet with so many human things.
I have come as the clouds
rolled in, massive and full
and the color of veins over the City.
And now the water pours out of them
and darkly from this room
I see, as if never before,
the human face,
wet and crossing quickly
under the passing clouds.