– 9 –

Mid-Sentence, So to Speak

The last reality, so singularly one's own—
the half-filled glass, the fingered sheet,
the glint of uneasy light along a blind
at dawn: the intensity, we suppose,
of everything that fades:
and for others,
for ourselves standing, observing
the dwindled circle and the solitary
friend; the drama, we tell ourselves, seen out
to its extent, its parabola eased down,
the lights on the curtain as the fading gong
resounds: omega, we call it, tigers
for opera that we are, who insist the line
is completed, faced with broken lines …
our fantasy of fulfilment, chanting simply,
End.