Can I seriously take around this pale mask, this variation of myself, this visceral ruin we share like gravity? Only your arm futures, looks past the snuff of quarantine. Can I attend this like a woman on my face? Can my devotional self of feet and hands, of body parts and gloves, expression in that language you read backwards? I speak a hurt you won’t return. In what mouth do you recognize these wings? What speaks those other faces you carry in magazines, what discourse, what gossip-circulation dreams my livelihood? Ours is a story, a face without hate or love. A face, unpunished, goes thinking: This vicarious universe, this inviting keyhole. If I am a lung then you are the presence of dogs, the ode of lilies strung dark with angst, my service resembling your hope-stolen skin. On the floor, tonight, you might know which masks you reviewed, which faces you played to dreams. Tonight you might make me a different image, make me a disguise of hands, make me hungry like a key.