A Compliment

“Would you withhold
your curse?”

“Yes, I will.”

“I know you don’t have
one. Stay quiet.”

He didn’t.
His demand, naked

in ragged dress,
rocketed into the air,

splintering the table
with an explosion.

If a saturated soul
ever withheld its voice

in solitude, ever uttered
falsities before none but the mirror,

it would be as though
within a most joyous gathering

the man who should be
most moved

sunk into the corner,
grey,
where none would notice.

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