Masquerade
I
am
the face
in the wall
whenever I am
missing out uncannily like
well-ordered sheaf of coloured home works for my own youth
I get into mischief chomping & staring at the pavement for patchy stuff in craze
the
same
is true
for a boy
plaiting his long hair
far from hot African desert
his gentle docility to hurt keeps him loyal
for so long to himself to the rustling movement among the erased streets in the past
