I left you the Dear letter,
anger for a signature,
when I heard the way, in Mirages, you made
the actor’s body crane
beneath a fig tree; the box he needed
to stand on, inexplicably missing—how
you lured a guiltless audience
into assuming silence part
of the play, the terminal coiling
a student of the caduceus saw
too late to save
a breathless theodicy. The same day
the hoist of a NYC bridge crane
returned to earth to crush a banker
walking the parados to the office,
his catastrophe also the operator’s.
Though we dream of dying at our curtain,
most are carried off mid-speech
or awaiting cue—Death’s not
as it was for Dionysus, offstage
to keep the ceremony sacred. Our altars
are nowhere near our performances
& God is not in the audience waiting
as we dress, only wanting to be working.
Deus Ex
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