According to my notes, this poem was written long ago after I awoke one morning from a troubling dream I couldn’t quite remember, and with a terrible sinus headache. If the dream was the first act, the poem is the second, and reading it is the third. Or maybe writing the poem was the second act, and the poem is the third, making reading the fourth — unless the poem is all of the acts combined.
Lights. The stage and theater are empty, except for an unopened letter on a table near the entrance.
The Second Act
He felt like a letter that arrived
after the person who wrote it died.
“Love? Are you all right?”
was the knife that cut him open.
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