A Tour Without Virgil

a make-believe tour inside
an insane asylum,
talking with someone
who’s someone else;

words are what
shape our lips
and pictures we see
put a glow in the eyes,

and yet the words here
flee like numbers on TV,
because the lips you watch
belong to someone else;

the eyes that watch you
are busy painting pictures,
you could drown in the oil,
smothered by the ochre smears,

and soon the pictures
overlap in waves, the garden
hangs on the wall
and the wall walks

behind you, your shadow
holds it for an umbrella,
and inside it locked up
is your private 10th Circle.