The dipper drinks the darkened broth.
A friend’s drunken silhouette has cut
Through the anonymity of the crowd.
The other stars like shade
And warping shadow on a scrim
Collect the minds of the disinterested
Whose smoke escapes the masquerade.
Not what we are, but that we’re not
Ourselves, achieves an evening of affect
And musky color palette: crimson, black.
“And does he wear a mask?”
The moon, our hostess, loves the wit
While her husband twirls his mustache as if
Its being real could counteract.
A feather in a knot of hair
Funnels attention from a low-backed dress.
As a mask activates when worn or egress
Transforms a set of stairs
The mind requires this pinion there
Or interest dissolves in atmosphere;
In plumage, one plume despairs.
