Actors are builders who borrow creases.
We stage the roses of our memory
around cemetery scripts meant to honor
the unfleshed bones of comedies, of tragedies.  

We beg for truth. ‘Where is the truth?’ we lament.
We ask silly questions, ‘is this me or the character?’
then fill our bellies with wine squeezed from
invisible grapes, an intimate hostage held beneath a
downstage left, low-light special meant to showcase
the pomposity of play-pretend misery.  

Then comes intermission, then comes
the last scene of the last act,
and We must admit that purpose dwells not in
the scream, the cheat, the borrowed ankle boots,
but in the space after the spine of a text has been
ripped and torn by animals desperate to ease
the worry of a blind man sitting in the
second row at the back of the theater, tired of
remembering how it used to feel
when his sight was free.