"It's a happy day."


he does not intend to play any tricks -

	big diamond ringed hands
	pinned sketchy smiles
	up on cracking walls...

our old dog's grave smelled appetizing
and our stomachs do not betray us.

A choir of voices sang,

	"There's a bolt on the door."

But a sharp little stab of happiness
	made a black hole in his face,
	a blind eye
	above the other cheek,
	winking back.

	"Will sorrow be born of it?"

he'll plug the possibility

	"I play nothing."

twitching threads
ran across his eyeballs
in precise and misguided patterns
like a ripple
in a great goblet
half-shattered,	aflame,
like a relic, 		adrift
on a pool of hot wax
where no wind can disturb.
like an anchor attached
to a battered statuette,
dented and split.
like you, on your head
when you...

	"Powder off somebody's face."

cut myself open.

	"Powder?"

pull myself together.

	"Powder."

there is always some that escapes.

	"I know,"