WHOSE LANGUAGE
Who’s on first? The dust descends as
the skylight caves in. The door
closes on a dream of default and
denunciation (go get those piazzas),
hankering after frozen (prose) ambiance
(ambivalence). Doors to fall in, bells
to dust, nuances to circumscribe.
Only the real is real: the little
girl who cries out “Baby! Baby!”
but forgets to look in the mirror
— of a . . . It doesn’t really
matter whose, only the appointment
of a skewed and derelict parade.
My face turns to glass, at last.