globe
not a stage a planet

bruised planks orbiting a sun made of soliloquy

audience as constellation—
each cough, a satellite of meaning

Rome burned here twice daily, except Sundays

and Hamlet rose and fell like a tide without moon

this was the world entire— conflagration fuelled
                                        by candlelight and gesture

call the rain
name it— not for mercy or for penance.
let it seep through cracked stone,

drawn by what we almost remembered.

no supplication. no altar. only canopy. only air.
it falls, scrubbing silence off the last clean wall.
we call, again— not to keep it, but to let it go.