The historian stumbles out puking and crying
storms into the raging night & sinisterly growls
"You," stabbing the air with a pointed finger -
"You get our of here."
Then moves cautiously back to her drink
Better than honesty.
END OF VIOLENCE GLARE
Is the will just a movement repeated, an addiction?
Here, in the black box
no audience but a silent witness
an angel in white and gold
the cloud of unknowing hanging
a see through cocoon to crawl into
Dare to touch or kiss the gossamer cloth
Yeats speaks: "I have spread my dreams under your feet;
Tread softly because you tread on my dreams."
named the historian Rhiannon
Don't, don't blame.
But don't , don't surrender.
Each moment quivers as I shake with desire and then pause.