Poetics

Costume Night

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

                                        my God

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.

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