You may know the masquerade’s
rugged legs
You may know the masquerade’s
velvet hands
But you can’t his falcon face.
You may know the masquerade’s
complex colour
But you can’t decipher the colour
clout
You may know the masquerade’s
dense dance
But you can’t his steep steps.
You may know the masquerade’s
sonorous song
But you can’t his embroidered
tune.
The mask is a conundrum
Yet it is a rumbling drum.

But who unmasks the poem?
Who can dance to the flute of the
gods?
Except we:
We, the poets
We, the unacknowledged legislators
We, the oracles of the gods.

With our tranquil feelers
And the delicacy of fingers
We disvirgin the onion layers of
the poem

Here, the nude layer shuttles us to
noon prudence
Here, its watery strings swing us
to moon proverbs
Here, we clutch to its pungent
smell
Like a barnacle to the seabed
Pooling a blithe olive oil bath
For a holified bath.