naked in act three

if there were time to rehearse it if
there were time for at least
a run-through to block it
then in costume to see
what wears well

iron out the scenes
that puzzle the lead
go over the curtain scene
that threatens the happiness
of all before the reversal (if

it was a comedy after all, whew)

to uproarious applause
and bow after bow
even a full cast reprise
of that final rollicking bit

I wouldn't feel so uneasy now
here naked in act three

with the audience coughing
the poor playwright vomiting backstage
the backers slumped as the critics
edge out by them

wouldn't be unable to say
the line that went so well at the reading
in my head
in the wings

might hear what the assistant
stage manager is hissing
at our embarrassed upstage knot

I insist:
this is a rehearsal
a play inside another;

act four will be
the real play - we'll
even know the title then

listen to me: we
are imitating
what we will be
playing
to the faithful imagination

Morning (after Roethke)

I swim in sleep and cannot reach the shore.
I dream my death, but living is my work.
My morning habit is for one day more.

Unless we're dying, what is waking for?
We live where light is, but we dive to dark.
I swim in sleep and cannot reach the shore.

My name is drawn in lifeblood on the door.
Surely no angel could miss so plain a mark.
My morning habit is for one day more.

Awake I'll don the mask and skin I wore;
Beneath my dolphin grin I am a shark.
I swim in sleep and cannot reach the shore.

Inside my waking I submerge before
Your tongue can burn me with its single spark.
My morning habit is for taking more.

Before you wake me, with my life in store,
Burn off my skin until my bones lie stark.
I swim in sleep and cannot reach the shore.
My morning habit is for one day more.

Francis D. Smith lives in Massachusetts.