(after Diane Arbus)
as for loops          we return only

when the cymbal crash decays into memory
then once more a young man fills the room

making it his center for erasure—rebirth—disguise
be it entering under layers of borrowed silk or

school photos torn in a drunken rage
          ~
in some rooms          ornaments bleed ink

and in others your find your chosen face
where an over-the-shoulder grasp of eyes

signals nights alive in otherwise dead towns
and the invincibility that comes with

disappearing under stage lights 
          ~
results on display                    defence in full armour

response rested                    then you come and 
wipe the slate clean                    furthermore

there is little to still          when the wave is reaching 
your toes          threatening to pull you

into the very depths                    you shy away from
near
          far
                    and
                              always
                                        blinking