Face
Jean Toomer

Hair-
silver-grey,
like streams of stars,
Brows-
recurved canoes
quivered by the ripples blown by pain,
Her eyes-
mist of tears
condensing on the flesh below
And her channeled muscles
are cluster grapes of sorrow
purple in the evening sun
nearly ripe for the worms.

From The Collected Poems of Jean Toomer (University of North Carolina Press, 1988)