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

            eyes!-

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-

                        mockery!

I ceased their ringing, afraid. Afraid of bells!

            Afraid to burn within

Your eyes-

            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.