[Act I: Prologue from the Proscenium]
Enter I.
It is dark, but not yet. You is set to arrive
at the set time. Unpack the silver, boil
the toast, spell out and out etcetera. This and that
affect, world-scraps. Why yes, bohemian
crystal, yes, handiwork of some destitute,
be easily impressed, touch if you plan on
touching. We talk how people talk
on their way to bed. What’s that
metal thing above the door? (The sky
had turned it up under my foot along
the railroad, a ring corroded to horseshoe.)
It is a metal thing. We want too easily.
You leaves—darkness, decorous—rankling
before dawn turns stranger, but not yet.
[Act II: Fourth of July Party]
Enter: extras.
I: Did you notice the world cease
and start up again? Clearly what our side
by side has done? She: Yes, I’m burning
with boredom already; do I have
to show you how? And again, to another’s
logistics, I: Shall we prove our right
or wrong first? She:
And again the fireflies
reset the coordinates at the far end
of the yard, revised and intent,
(take your bearings, try her!).
And again, I:
[pause
for eye contact] She:
And again, I:
Exit some resolve.
[Act III: Soliloquy re-enactments of an ending]
I: Oh there goes our door! Slipped hinge
and all, circling a few times around
our heads before clearing the trees,
before closing up its piece of sky, au revoir.
It was so good to us, our little zeugma, now
our museum piece, ta-ta. In its infancy
we coddled it like a fine conjugation (Latin
for inflect the yoke) and its adolescence
of Here boy, good dog, fetch! How it
snarled and snapped, but we knew:
we were a legend in its heart. Oh, our near
legend written over the old legend,
the page nearly solid black, so good
for an us, so useful when no one’s around,
so good, so good,
Exit nearly everything.
[Act IV]
Enter I’s mind. Dense terrain, pines
In the underneath I set a trap for a trap
and hide and don’t move since You
is moving, omnipotent parting
of—right now—a watery near dusk bluing
under the pines. I have baited it with
so much to assemble and hid and still don’t
move. You knows it’s a trap and strides
as one who knows. The sky drags
its teeth into the earth, or: a twig snaps
under my foot, I try to still me, assume
I’m spinning, but can’t be sure. You is
nearing and/or is there. Deft
brace of jaws with stick [I watch]
swap-out bait with decoy [ferrous
veined Feldspar patched by Quartz]
and off [air of little torrents, narrow
air of gone], back into the pines. Ha.
I reset the spring in the jaws, re-bait,
re-scent, put the stone in my shoe. You
must change, now You must change, now
[Act V: Back at Party]
I returns.
I: I’m sorry what? Apparently someone
has touched me on the forearm to get my attention,
hewn an orbit there, in the pines where two
embrace who think no one’s looking, but I am
and have been watching for some time now
(eventually turning back to my book
or some such and the thought loses gravity,
spinning out wider, thinner). Apparently someone
is talking to me, several are looking my way.
I [panicky, too loud]: Watermelon! Oh, let’s believe
wildly in watermelon! Let’s wedge
our faces, spit seeds at the moon,
let’s swallow a patchful, feel the roots
threading our liver, our hunger,
let’s parlay and parlay this into something
that resembles a love life, Oh watermelon!
And the party goes back to normal, munching
on embers, fireworks in the eyes, etc.
[Act VI: Envoi from the Back Porch]
Sparklers: seen off a mirror and a window
through another window and outside. Really a simple
matter of undoing reflection back to sparklers
and the hand (spinning, carnivalesque) the sparks
are biting into. The sort of door this biting makes
hot against the spinning hand circling a brightness,
cool against the night air. The opening and opening
of this door and the walking and walking through.
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