Recondite

The moon is a smudge.
The clock's hands fuzz.

It is Day Three of facade.
Making eye contact with voices.

But whats unknown scares less
than keep on keepin' on

so I lie, staring at students whose
visages have long gone indistinct,

nodding when their vocal cords vibrate
as any acknowledger should

even one doing what he should
hiding what he feels he should hide

from not the students but from himself