Thomas Fink and Maya Diablo Mason

Invisible Voyeurs

The winter is empty except     

for you and me. But seven       

are swimming in it.

If you sing now, you might  

get arrested. What color is   

nothing? A combination        

of many that grows invisible   

in the mixing.

Emptiness sizes up   

our wrinkled disguises, our shapely  

conventions, ignorant burlesques.

They convene to perfect impressions. Or  

have we invented them to shiver?

To blanket egos for winter warmth?

Distant mockery in winter trees. We   

only “know” as we believe.

Comfortable Distraction

The sun watches

me rise.

Rainbow ribbons in

a garbage puddle

remind me that

someday we won’t be able to

see in color;

it will have been deemed

a beautiful distraction.

Green wind

tackles a horizon—

and I forget again,

comfortable