gold-black corset turns my head.
There you are,
eight feet of 19th-century carnival
striding through the 2015 twenty-somethings.
We down here may wear suits, gowns, masks —
some simple, some feathered, some fantastical;
even a few gems from commedia dell’arte —
but beneath you,
we are mere pretenders in pretending.
You, too, wear a mask —
black, with a pointed gold-lined nose.
Long gloves bloom from dark sleeves,
high-fiving bemused partygoers. And
lest I forget,
Long, wavy, satiny black,
draping like curtains
to the floor.
your impossibly long legs?
Your jaw is pale,
your lips light pink.
I’d like to talk to you.
How old are you? When
did you learn to walk so tall?
Is it lonely?
In the waning hour, longing to dance with you;
to meet your head-high waist
Only my gaze can reach.
When the clock tolls,
you are still a glittering mystery,
larger than life.
I, a phantom,
peering from the rift.