Edge Of The Mask

A deep hole in a trench,/ hidden, wakeful,/ you cast your sad shadow/ you play with novelties/then fumble to remove the light bulb/your penchant for ferris wheels and metal diners/chokes you in the glow of a Madonna/who chides you, hard and fast/ to upend a goblet in chance encounters with the Zodiac/ the suns’ task each day resurrected/ but the fourth day finds your breath in torrents.

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