lucid theatre
again, again—you
in a lavender suit buttoned loose.
a devil cutting a fine figure,
je ne sais quoi in the fine stitching,
six years of revealing fine print.
the same story sinks its teeth into time
and knots us obediently
to performer and spectator.
it’s the event of the century:
me, you, and the alpine butterfly
in a perfect syzygy!
what’s more, the stage
has excellent composition;
lines and colours pave
to the focal point like rome, and
your hand-painted trompe-l'œil backdrop
is selling the lie. lord, i’m emptying
my pockets like a dog for a piece.
it’s no shame, for i have no name,
i am called equally by each word
you deliver as i beg for an aside.
oh, if i wake up, pull me back
under—again, again—from the golden
to blue hour i belong nowhere
but the half tone edges
of your limelight.