What she sees
Through the pebbled shower door
The morning sun
Stacking cards against
Her flowered chest of drawers
The Pointillist blend
Of his colors from the bed
As he gropes
For higher frequency
On the radio
The crucifix turned
Toward the wall
Animals that normally
Share her intimacy and smell
All love’s a play
On domesticity
A game show involving doors
And what is hidden
It will end
Where all unmasked phantoms end
The murderous fashionable
Crowd on the Paris street
They rush in fascination
To the hideous inhuman face
And reaching it
Pass it by
