are we all but strangeness clad
in this feigning of wisdom? our whims
exeunt our graces and just pretend?
are we not all this caliginosity underneath furious light? are we not all
    that spurious talk and no inimitable
quiescence?
  are we all just nothing framed
to pithless flesh? before
there were shadows fitting figures
  not their own — discomfitures rehearsed, contritions tell-tale.
      
we are something the moon or
if not so, then moonless
yet never the aureole truant — always searching.