Masking

bare faced and fire-flushed

the tragicomedia drops to floor
repulsed am I with the monotone
face with no music, a sleep's a well
soft attacked,

and a top register of tripping temperature
of hair on end, and the sphere of heralds
blowing alarms.

tablature and the concrete fine-pulverised.
there she lies still, me fallen to my feet.
the stomach makes voyage, to and fro

i do not trust my face and some dogs
share the suspicion

here there is no wept water for omphalos
taint this amnion with caffeine and living
make fair my arrival at least until
i can laugh far from suburban goathood

make onerous Oneiros when dreams are in drought