Naming the diorama

Solitude finds its most joyful expression

and the madrigal delights in the shut-eye collapse.

The thrust of turpentine

overwhelmed by the fragrance of wood nymph hair, the view of luxury

cascading before the slump of the velvet

ebony couch.

Content with the displacement of throes

The blurring arrives at the simultaneous point of completion, and the wind

Grows still. It ascends to a dead chill

Stabbing against the smooth of the skin.

And on the windowsill lined, rock salt

And new dust.

and below each vantage point,

a placard indicating its name.

I am the only catalyst of unrefined movement,

The only interlocutor aware of the reality-

There is an audience, an opera, and I hide, almost naked

Behind the heavy of the reddest drapes.

The destitution of this craver clothed

By the imperial darkness of the abandoned exhibition

You will give me a name. You will evoke in me a flame
And your other self will put it out.