The man who wore the dashing tailcoat and brass monacle
was always fascinated by how everything is hidden.
He was considered isolated, introverted, perhaps even rude,
but in actuality, he hid from things hidden.
The sheer silk pillowcase on one’s pillow, which hid the feathers of pheasant.
The crimson carpet, which hid the cold floor,
which hid the Earth beneath it.
The clothing on the backs of every human being,
no matter satin, cotton or twine,
it hid one’s skin, thus their vulnerability, from the world.
Alas, as the dashing man sighed,
he could no longer investigate his fascination.
For he knew, under the fabric, whether the finest silk or derived from poverty,
hid skin.
And skin, it covers up the hideous, unspeakable secrets that no one should know.