the memory theater

the memory theater

the mem­ory the­ater © bd


while the Rain Pie drums the Sycamore tree,
dark­ness rises up to scum­ble twilight’s tints

old men on benches mum­ble names for knots,
quar­rel­ing fin­gers at their throats

a hush falls on Camillo’s Mem­ory The­ater—
its isles, lit­tered with the mimic’s mask
and the many things else a mum­mer needs,
are drown­ing them­selves in dusty neglect

while the Rain Pie walks the ele­gant wil­low,
birds rise as one, bound for secret homes

old men on benches mut­ter incan­ta­tions
to still wild fin­gers on their buttons

the the­ater dome was once a zodiac in pearl
where schol­ars hung the names of things—
pearlish-blue were the eyes of Tris­megis­tus
as he gazed at the old men in wonder

when at last the Rain Pie pounds his Pine,
the bell of things best for­got­ten rings

old men rise from benches with a lurch
and walk their lubber’s walk, canes in hand

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