I stand here,
in the wings,
Watching your words
play together on the merry stage.
Rhymes and rhythms,
tumble together laughing,
stick hard in my
chest as undigested pain.
Some triumph of discipline,
this -
out of your lives,
art,
out of your poems,
friends.
I shift, eager perhaps
to speak,
to act, to sing some
song
which would enchant
Medea,
or enslave a God,
or make you spit
into a corner
with delight.
And then, ah then
fall silent,
while the golden
rose I have within
that does me for
a heart,
rises and tries to
bloom;
for one moment flares
in joints and limbs
as burnished, punished
life.
One moment more, I
stand here
in the edge of dark,
loose at the edge
of your stage.
Then turn. Arms full
of your poems,
I return home to
my dark.
