On Isolation

(Thinking the last stanza needs to be deleted... Would welcome critical feedback on this.)



Now is the time when light
slows its breathing.
When the wind braids
the trees into chords
of dissonant longing
like fragments. Like echoes.
The tempo of things
slows imperceptibly.

The eyes of loneliness
are Casati's, smoky
at the edges. I watch
the sun pause
above its carapace, turn
its head as if waiting
for a voice.

A pearl of laughter,
glassy-smooth, shatters
from within the park.
I fold back into myself,
a glove too precious for use.

When the mask is worn
too long,
poison blossoms
like a porcelain heartache.