THAT in my fever while sanity has escaped by baluster
i continue to gaze in daze across the sea of white-
Each o-shaped mouth
Each Black-bead eye
and all the ears
all the chins
speak an infinite story of nothing but sadness.
And within the orchestral pit finely dressed musicians
they shed b-flat note tears; their mannequin powder-white
skin a color of pink’s sunsetting murmur.
Simply, the true story is off stage toward this
improbable army audience; the finely carved polychrome
citizens start to move; half-bodied and more alive
than the flesh-kingdom.
Last night. Last night i felt.
That one’s life can be as real as one’s imagination
if you sinerely wish it.
:: 08-23-2018 ::