Mise En Scene

I'm laying
on a crooked metal frame.
Shadows from the wall, from the fan on
the ceiling; cast the
shading aside in but marks
on the pillows.
From cigarettes.
Welcome,
I have here a desk,
masters
of delaying likelihood;
we manage
to keep change away. For a while,
and a taste of the midnight moonshine.
Non-alcoholic.

We are
hooded figures
without hoods. That is to say,
mysteries
but not at the cost of our sight,
and we hold candlesticks
out in the open,
like in a trance.
Because we saw the things we wanted:
frameless paintings or
colorfully built doorways.
But none of this
makes you feel listened to. It's not your
turn, right now.
It will be eventually.

Does it mean anymore
than arbitration in letters, in sounds?
mouth this with me:
I like
the way nothingness feels.