Miss in, your infinite jest

             your classic fury

             your talking seeds

Mist, the clouds of vermillion

         the masquerade of bells

         the chef behind red

Misease, of being in the other mind

               of rippling rocks and shredded sails

               of my mistaken identity grasping permanence

Mister, at the parking lot

            as the placid placebo

            a shield without hands

                         I never saw the misdirection.