Out from the vault of secrets,
the gaffed deck and
the table rigged with mirrors
that true face rises, shamefully plain--
bone and twitch and light
all the magic of the mask.
This transmission, this motion
between truth and story,
between thought and fact,
the haphazard map drawn
discovering the heart of art
lives like a book that passes
through many negligent hands,
dog-eared and cluttered,
margins full of invective and
phone numbers, doodles
made of stains and valentines.
A reflection of a reflection,
the ghost of twice exposed film,
the truth of that ache in your heart
the whole cloth of breathless beauty--
a gimmick so deft you feel
the separate conversations alight
between sun, shape, and shadow.
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