Eyes of the Director

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Your happy eyes watch
— And you, in the defining half darkness,
I see — as the players play,
As the actions unwrap as planned,
Pre-conceived. You have pulled it off quite well:

All that weight on your soft shoulders,
All these days carrying the burden,
Now translated into silent lovers
Moving unrehearsed-like, on the
Rehearsed stage. And from the packed gallery

I watch and my sight — in night vision —
Is as clear as the boils of desire
Would allow such a pair of eyes to be. I want
That stage frozen with the tip of my finger, to mute the
Silhouettes of this redundant mass; draw you in one final movement

To me.

And in the fossilized theater there will be
No movement or sound. The lights, two arcs of
Spotless spots, will light up that arrested space
And here — on the sides — where soothing shadows abide,
There you will stand and stand there will I.

As one Scene ends your eyes twitch, and
You await the smooth run-on-line to
The next relevant ante-Scene. As the momentary blackout
And the Exit permeates into a light like what you find
At the opening credits of Mr. Bean

You mark the next Entrance with your
All knowing smile, nods to yourself
And in half-rapt attention, that to
Intervene with a freeze — or to halt the act to a still –,
In spite of passionate urge, to do I never will.



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