By Scherezade Sanchita

The night footslogs, an actor

emptied of his drama. No apprentices,

no masks or myths marauding

through the corridors of his bones.  

Stripped of his skullduggery

No audience anticipates

his entry. His path is now fossilized

concrete not the vulpine redness of

velour and stardust.  In a sulfurous

district, that predictable crescent

wound bleeds moonlight and memories. There

are no ardent, rabid pets, followers

who would  scuff at shadows; no howls

or half visible phantoms

floating like foam clouds.

His arrival is not preceded

by the sluggish rowing of hours

of rains that augured the ebbing

canvas of an aquarelle city.  Its fabric

 is unspooled. Its design unscathed

by the petite incandescence

hovering over porticos and alleyways.

Tonight it is just a mute eruption

in an onyx mine and a cosmic bedspread

silently curls its limbs around

the slovenly berth: a theater now submerged

in its own tender darkness.