the illusory green
surely emerald eyes betwixt
a mask on the frame
dully noted-
winter might shame out the truth
rusted tracks with rusted roots-
and train cars, containers stacked like bricks
from high up
radio buttons of oil stored
like somber binary code
cold and alone
but the illusory green
for this spring
and some months
covers up
the urban rot.

can a mask truly mask what is seen? do we not perceive at some level what is beneath a covering? so is a mask – if we choose to believe… or not?