Leaving the Globe
Robin Wyatt Dunn
Doorknobs Winner
Art is an impulse restrained; I carry my vellum into the theater but all is behind me. I am now only a ghost, though not yet dead. Nothing I can say is true, but I’m getting closer to it, even as I get closer to death.

Actors’ eyes are a kind of death, for they know no boundaries at all, even the ones I set, though they are desperate for me to set them, so that they might disregard them.

I carry no one at all over my shoulder, and this is a terrible and terrifying thing.

Language does not ultimately serve the Queen but it might as well for my purposes; there is no escaping her.

I have only my dreams, and they too are fading. I am like Titus, and each story is a limb, that I lop off, to feed to the alligators in the Thames.

First published: November 2015
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