Acquainted, am I,with captivation — the shadow and soundsof the evening’s darkening,
A thread pulls, to unravel a dressing, and somewhere beneath the filaments:a carnival of skin.
Spit in palm and, make a deal,to grasp a contract with a worn-down wheel.When you would rather drift away,into a lateral flight……
Provenance is a trick,a tailor-made tale for the touristthat flock, to gawkat my vacillations.