We hear the stage direction, Exit right.
We face the audience seldom; it is us.
Beyond the footlights, all we see is night.
From here it looks eternal, as we fuss,
each with our own stage business, and we pine
for speaking parts, and plots where we can lead,
at least a little. Blind directors mine
emotion lodes. They make us cry and bleed.
We take steps that take us further from salvation.
Clapping hands disorient us. We pause,
on the edge of what we’d meant to be creation,
but which our hamming up reveals as gauze
and spangles masquerading as The Light.
We move across the stage and exit right.