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The Scrambler
Mask of life; death, May.
Wrought night black
sparks with stars.
Mysterious, longing
to dance; part of the cosmos,
my place is being
masked yellow.
Bright love, shine lamp.

Earthen pine tree,
shields the raw
of the beast;

friendly awesome
leviathon at play.
Dangerous. This May
dance goes on. Bloom

I live as a man.
My eyes are blue,
my teeth white, sharp,
a hand drawn on forehead,
palm open;
this mask of May
knows cosmic eternity
as promise everlasting.

Speak night. You speech.
I hear.
God draws me.
Festive May Night
*Peter Menkin lives in Northern California. Visit his blog.