the face I keep on the shelf

everything I think
is reality is reality


it is born
of star explosions
in deep time
finding these sparks
in my head

and every face I wear
is real
no matter how
ridiculous
or cruel
I become

and each spoken word
is a deal
with the avalanche
of thought
frothing in turmoil
of language
I have

where am I
when the sun is setting
and blissfully
breaks
against the coastline
of skin
I dress myself in?

I see the perfect ripening night
and I think
and I feel
and I speak
to nothing
but the darkening light
really