Will they shake and stir, and right the bent,
will they make us something, out of a lot of heavy and terrible and deliberate, a lot of nothing?
Are their heads shaking, or, are they nodding?
A tall young with a mask, a fist crumpled in his hand,
a familiar and long, gentle finger across the wrist,
counting per minutes,
lead along a strong and slender arm, on up,
to the first beautiful the young ever saw.
“Is he good, my young? Is he good?”
