when you find me
I am sitting on the dirt
twisting  a mask
in my fingers
and you could not catch
what I said only that it
was muttered,
repeated and there is something
not quite vapid about me,
but lost and then
filled with something
else. the first thing I say to you
is it’s torrential.
I expect you to know what to say
back. 

are my hands changing colors?
 I examine them myself,
fingers spread, string
around index, mouth cover
dangling.
I expect you to know what
to say back. 

“Carey”