The old stage.

From this wooded landing, casting forth unfocused into the pelvic midst of night,
Not yet anointed by dawn-glow The notion of actors here,
Props embellishing this, dogeared scripts puzzling upon it as
Preposterous of notions as
Electricity or, say,
Time travel--

To this prehistoric medium
Alone
We venture with no mediation, fiction, introduction--
Nude.

We must manage the dearness of this hour,
And never bow to curse the darkness
As it held us in maternal proximity,
When in urgency and not-knowing
We waited for one another to appear.

Applauses of brittle leaves at the moment of their descents await;
We are expected to be true.