One day, we’ll be able to say
finally, with certainty,
when the curtain will drop across
our antique stage and the pages
of our striving be torn
from their limitless books.
In such and such a way, we all
are crooks, looking like dragonflies
and Ionic columns colored in sunsets.
Russet flesh flashes,
dashes towards the exit sign,
and plucks the lute strings
of the souvenir shop.

The curtain drops.

-r. miller

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