Fishing for Lightning

The house is open. A storm approaches. 

Hushed voices, a wall hoisted and nailed in place 

by the hammering of ironic minds. 

The lights change, purple-blue then fade, 

whereas lights everywhere else are on or off, 

this light scoffs, and jeers with bright golden cheers 

and burgundy spheres and dark fabric frames into prison 

for escaping prism. Blackout. Solitary. Spotlit commentary. 

Fog spills from the wings. So dark it stings. So rich it stinks. 

Brought to the brink to be told to hold in places. 

Three hundred years. Three weeks of rehearsals. 

Time untouched by memory and the clocks that record such time. 

There is only one load bearing wall, it clutches no joist, cradles no timber, 

separates no room from another. A body stuck in a state of autopsy, 

every story in the building can be seen from any seat. Where truth and fiction meet 

there is a friction and there is a heat, and lights glow blue to cool it down, and it is soothed 

by subtle sound. The doors unlocked. The house could not be more open. 

We have tied all the keys to kite strings.

Watch us fish for lightning.