The dust has fallen. The rock's unbroken
face has been defaced into faces,
various and beautiful
instead of being one and true.
If anything is true, this is true:
we love all that are not unbroken,
for they bore the brunt of beautiful
blows, reflected in our scarred faces.
The city, from this hill, has many faces
in its glass, neither good nor true,
but multitudinously beautiful,
quickening, twinkling in the broken
light falling like hail, broken faces
so beautiful and so untrue.