Monday, January 14, 2008

The Admirer

the greatest of unresolved anticipations
is reserved for the admirer of the actress,
who will always in his own mind
be unbilled casting director,
as though this woman had quite
unintentionally become lost amidst a plywood
kingdom and found herself reciting beneath
footlights like some nameless,
crumbless Gretal,
and he her unsung hunstman,
for whom the play itself is but
a nightly offering, some long prolonged
overture to a most resplendant climax,
a tuneless triumphant aria when this
goddess muse
appears in all her naked splendor over
a rumbling timpani of many-handed acclaim,
roses flung like cymbals from
the encore of his mind--
and he
to relive this moment ceaselessly
through darkness of day
until the next night's
sixpence moonshine.

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