The stained glass murmuring faces, reflected beasts
on their day off, holiday-
makers grinning sideways
first dates
dumb with hope
they stare
as if audient 
to themselves
whisper of shaded bones, say
‘when I die
I want my bones unpainted
on display 
which of course they will be
so distant people know
the monsters we are now.’

The exhibit is closing, the mouths 
are shutting down, the only sound
the slow flicker of a paintbrush 
covering old fears.