Only for years faint hush hush in the walls
and in the off TV
of wings as large as pages,
powder of taupe and umber on glass doors,
then suddenly on the window,
Cecropia -- last seen when? --
named for the king who taught burial of the dead.
It's the mask of a god,
face the size of a cat's,
colorless where the eyes are, or is it
faint silver of the galactic core
feeding on stars?
Hermes, I think, with his decennial message,
patron of liars and speed, but saying
slowly and truly
how strange the gods are, that this
is no mask but his very face,
depthless, unreadable,
more like a hand
clenching on skylines, white powder
streaming from the fist
that does not see what it does.