You walk on the stage;
words bubble up
between the boards,
drift around
your feet as mist.

Lines hang in swathes
from the flies.
They tangle, cluster
into clumps for you
to pick. Plums
to fill your mouth,
sate your hunger.

Stray letters swirl
in the light.
You breathe them in.

In your dressing room,
the air tastes
hollow. The walls
are too bright,
too clear.

In your mirror
you watch your face
fade, your mouth

Angela France

If you have any comments on this poem,  Angela France would be pleased to hear them.

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