Call Time

The soul pushes against the sides of the narrow 
chamber whose only purpose is to keep it in, hold 
it in one place, prevent it from leaving its bed
and bursting into the air, then dissolving in the grass 
at your feet. Or it flutters, courting any current 
that would take it away. The air, chilled at evening, touches 
every stray tendril that hasn't yet curled inward
into itself. Unending rehearsal, with no possible
understudy: everyone's absorbed learning their own
lines, their own moves. A heap of discarded costumes 
lies on the floor: rippled silks, rough linens. 
Socks and shoes, scarves to wind against your throat.   


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