This is no steam-room. We have all gone cold, We are in fact all gone, post coal gone, cold. We throw only our shadows on the wall. And it is not from the light of a furnace, But by virtue of our lantern of disguises. These are our only sauce of our heat It is not night time forever. These canvass were never for stretching. I think out ~ loud, "Use yours as a veil if you want". Mine is a sketch pad, somewhere on which to skid. A sketch pad for my marks, formation marks, for my muscles. Here in the boiler house There is little room for flight. Therefore with our heads filled with or, of, stream, We depart from each other at Sweet 16. ©2020 Christopher Thompson All rights reserved.