As a spectator,
you struggle to understand
it. An addict
of experience,
you fiend
for significance;
want
every gesture—need it—
to be special.
Only after you're driven
to participate
does it start
to make sense. Now
you know:
balance, intuition
upkeep, repetition,
the satisfaction of building
a pattern that lasts.
You find yourself walking
around the proscenium,
kowtowing
to righteously indignant-
but-mistaken
eye-witnesses,
then bending
toward the floor
miming kisses,
as if pressing
your delicate lips
to the blackened
marks on the resolute fists
of the corpse
of your past.
Only the darkness
at the end
of each performance
could be considered
referential or important,
and only because it's
the exact same dark
as the dark
at the start.
