dripping light moss
                        night clouds
spilling gossamer smoke toward
                        the earth
            that soaks up the dark
                        spackled dirt & stone
                        like cheesecloth—

hidden, in the small corner of the heart
            a seed won’t grow
            rimmed in shadowed soil, won’t
stretch its rooted fingers

How this mask hates itself
            as if tiny cockroaches made love
                        behind the leather strap
                        bliss soaked in sex & spite—  

but when it shifts
the picture underneath            shines
                        O yes, like a lamp
                                                it shines.

Michael Buebe is a poet from Galesburg Illinois. He is currently studying poetry in the NEOMFA through Kent State University.