I am an unknown actor
playing an inconsequential role,
in a production which has no author.

An invisible stage crew,
wearing clouds so as not to be seen,
has elevated this narrow stage to an unnatural height.

Here I witness the moon,
as a canned light hung from a hidden catwalk,
burning to bring us the night.

The chair on which I rest shudders with vibration,
a massive engine suspended from the adjacent wing
which folds only once with the closing act.

The light of the Moon comes to me twice,
once from its refractive regolith,
then again from the curve of the nearby, rotund shroud.

Internal blades spin with incredible precision at an incomprehensible velocity so as to maintain this airborne guild. With me, there are three hundred actors. I am but twenty seven and one. Together, we long for an audience which cannot attend yet will embrace us individually, at theatre’s end.