Screams caught in revolving yolk,
Is that Andalusia, or lace, or
your skin contemplating grace?
We must train our words to leap.
We talk about our hate for advertisement.
In a hall where smiles are a costume,
Black ties and long dresses, and screams
hidden under tongue, costume night music playing
we take out our original skins
hug without costume
but only for three seconds,
the music must soar again.
We must not scream. We
dance to the screams
of our hands, joined. My God.