Seeing, from the Cheap Seats

There are gifts that

come of breathing,

that come of blood

driving through veins,

 

no charge. Just being. 

 

One is the noise of existence. 

Another is when the noise stops.

 

After the theater 

of the self has closed; 

after the season of the self 

goes to reruns, music 

 

begins, slow, silent. 

Then, you hear . . .

 

it was the thought itself

that created the chains,

 

the blinders. When the 

mis en scene is struck,

 

gifts come, without 

breath, without blood. 



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