What is to become of this storm-
wracked world, this burning world?
The moon is supposed to loom large
tonight. Imagine a flourish of chords,
the sense of a swelling and building.
It's as if anyone's life, pushed to
the center of that stage, under flood-
lights, might still aspire to a long
and dazzling run. Instead, I feel
like the silence in the rafters before
and after every performance— the seats
folded back in place, scraps of playbills
swept away along with any ovations.
Purveyors of fine poetry since 2003.
