The jour ouvert, the mardi gras, the numbing dance that does not end
this careless costume, its sinews drenched in dew
in glitter of sweat, in tatters of flesh will fall away and
like your forebears you’ll philosophise «enbas la terre pas ni plaisir», you
will think to do it here and now. And after all why not?
Don’t say “love” or “truth” – you do not need to
You would admit you search. White aigrettes take phantasmal flight
you chip chip chip to sound of pan. Vaval and ash and feigned regret.