Paean for the Players
The pale actor’s mouth
opens oddly, an envelope
filled with ink, no teeth.
The effect seems apt
for the tormented Prince
who gouts words
onto the thick cream
paper of the air; we
see down the well
of words a terrible pink
tongue, the mortal man
in pieces predicting final
dismemberments.
Once briefly a player
myself I made the headlong
dash one must
against the words, against
death that would stay us.
When actors speak and move
we all become more
real, guising our best
versions of that
tenderness, ire, lust,
sad gaiety, as two fingers
pluck and ruffle and
unbutton a sleeve.
