Untitled

Skirting the dream-teeming downtowns of sleep,
I glide along the peripheral wearyways,
Semi-conscious of incidents, limp-limbed and lusterless.
This is the least of the best I can hope for: indistinct belvederes,
Sugarcrust lanes, and rubber-stamp skylines--
Cycloramic mirages. While trumpeting toward me:
A protean person demonically masked
In a hundred shifting sham-devil miens
Impersonates people I know I have known.
He raves around me
As the world in its utter unpredictable un-ness
Ribbons to pieces and wriggles away.