Your sparkling

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,

the dress.

Long, wavy, satiny black,

draping like curtains

to the floor.

Why conceal

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

and sway.

Stilted,

saying nothing.

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.