O my heart’s a theater empty but of you upon its
stage; I’m stationed
By the exit, darkened in the back. Your eyes! your
if they on me could fall
their sun would be the world!
This arena would be all afire, and you would dance
your ballet of desire for me
And not for Art-
even absent he would bleed a gap
unwadeable that’s waved by you.
That empty seat up front-
how close I’ve been;
mocked by distance!
How undevout I’ve become. Who struck the bells
in me that indicated you-
I ceased their ringing, afraid. Afraid of bells!
Afraid to burn within
eyes of honey, lilies, eyes
that empty auditoriums.
S. T. Brant is a teacher from Las Vegas.
Pubs in/coming from EcoTheo, Door is a Jar, Santa Clara Review, Rain Taxi, New South, Green Mountains Review, Another Chicago Magazine, Ekstasis, 8 Poems, a few others.
You can find him on Twitter @terriblebinth or Instagram @shanelemagne.