EX (V)

As usual, you’ll never feel normal, again
 a company but of ghosts
 Masks are tiresome unnecessities, to 
 tread on sidewalks, totally unknown 
 nor the fake pearl, the bead of glass 
 That shines under the pants’ belt behind. 
 Sunrises and set, moon phases, also 
 are something so-long terms obsolete,  
 If worthy, you may give any emptiness 
 a tasty shape, 
 -a bit sour for this instant
 Or lead the wheel, or point to wheresoever 
 with one index finger to
 just file the nail,
 on blame.