for masks and venues to wear them while I
like a comma, scenting bright
pixellated warmth, follow a girl
through nearly hermetic conversations.
I don’t ask her name because
I can feel its memory in clots of braille
on my tongue, a thing known only
to nociceptors on fingertips
and I want to go blind.
All my words are inmates rattling
enameled cages, begging pardon
in sentences from a Panopticon tongue.
I crack a beer with my eyesocket; the cap lodges,
blood monocular. Then the lights go red.
I am costumeless. Decoupled.
Somewhere a train is leaving.
And when the speakers’ volume calves
I drift away,
the silence denudes me.
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