During the interlude, nothing is found or figured out. Minds unhitch
orbit-less. Eyes forget to blink. Plastic spoons, Häagen-Dazs, lipstick,
urinals, red curtains, left and right brain hemispheres are floating

in the gap between one universe and another, between a platform
and a train. A streetlight falters, an oak tree sheds its season in one breath,
black T-shirts reposition the world, clothed bodies descend,

pinned in place by tubes of searchlight. You hear somebody
refolding their legs, the squeak of a shoe’s leather, a boiled sweet
rolling from one cheek to the other and it feels like – were the actors

to drop dead (from an after-party in the theatre bar last night,
that someone spiked) and soldiers, politicians, vicars, presidents,
the actors’ mothers, sisters, brothers, the actors’ fathers to burst in,

sprint past the blocks of seats, beat the corpses, rape them, set dogs
on them – judges and juries would look on through gleaming faces
as we look on now for fifteen minutes, breathing out, breathing in.

Years pass. Some shout their pain from a soundproof box
until, startled by the score from the pit, the light peeled back,
a triangle struck, we see ourselves rise from the stage and play on.