She’s like an enigma encry
pted in the fissures of magici
ans’ tricks,
Arms of missing links
or hidden, scrapped in litt
le bits and she never sends them in
a kiss. Free to chat –
I need to ask – but talk about it in
a bit so her tongue’s a syno
nym for Venetian masks. Fea
tured padlocks in her spee
ch’s dance
but swears envelopes receive their
stamps; regardless, her wo
rds are open plan, sudoku, brok
en an
d swallowed whole like
notes in class.
She’s stained glass and castle wa
lls, Aesop’s fables, battlements Picasso dra
ws, abstract inventions like-

like metaphors?

Readers tour words;
and march to cool mirages;
Reduce the hieroglyphs to standard languages;
We spend our time on it.
We spend hours defining how an artist works;
Our works reduce labyrinths to gardens,
Questions syllables with intrusive powers
til we’re left with nought but meaning,
and grief for illusions and patterns.
So maybe
There’s beauty in her translucence I would not see in the transparent.