The Mist-Maker

Comes home from work,

kicks off his shoes,

pours himself a dark and stormy.

Looks at me with beady eyes

that speak violence to the soul

that rows out to sea

every morning at dawn.

His hound tears at bloody

meat---no rite, no

sacrifice. Eating its meal. Scared 

curtains poke fun from filtered

sun at our serious stares.

Not a cackle broken, nor courage

to quarrel a hellish

silence of masks between

us. No one wants to be buried 

like the roosters

or the mad.

The masquerade at hand:

desist from death 

of fear. The demon’s dog

drivels: dilute me

into mist. No gun

for temple, no escape

from under curtains (for

the crowd would gasp).

The difference between

tragedy and comedy lay

in the way one is dissolved.

The withering ghost

or osmosis into night. No

end to my story; I’m accustomed

to his glance. He dare not attack.

My pen a razor-blade that bleeds

and takes shape on this white

surface. Yes, follow me

oh Mist-Maker, follow

and turn my dust

into light.