The Play

The scene where I dress myself,
Becoming before you
A dream for amateur
Analysis, as I insist I ask
Not your rank conclusion: it’s

Dust, air, innocence, enmity, a
Play spent in limbo on
An outcropping of lot, vacant
And teeming too, with
The growth of a truth

Too small to notice, but then,
It is huge if you speak
The language, it is mammoth
And planetary and dancing
Like this galaxy, beyond any

Gathering of fact. Isn’t this
Your truth, too? And haven’t
I tried, to unwind you with a glance,
To pretend and prefigure you,
As an inadequate actor, playing nude

On a stage made dangerous
In China, in plastic sandals, hurling
Foible after foible at a bland
Audience, who are tickled-- and not just,
By their ticket stubs: sugary-sweet, and not a bad, snack.