The humans are out there taking their bows in the light where the world can see.
We are piled up,
cold and immobile on the floor as the green room light fills
Up our empty button eyes.
Our cardboard frames listen closely to the aching theater walls,
And to the chandelier,
Tired of holding its own weight.
We may not be destroyed.
Perhaps we will be kept in a room, overcome with mildew and moon:
Still folded over,
Still Bowing
Do you feel your head unspooling into the universe?
The strings are fraying at the edges,
irreparably stained with the stardust at the ends
Of the many worlds you stretch across.
Yes, Alice thought as she drifted deeper into sleep from within that lightless and beautiful place, make it stranger now. Make it all new again.
My very favorite poem is an inarguably terrible one. I do not know its name and do not care to find out if it has a name.
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