Female impersonator holding long gloves

By | 1 November 2018

(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






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