Act 13. Tinkerbell is dead, a crumpled
Kleenex by the sofa. Lost
boys and girls are playing indians and
pirates in the rec room,
brandishing their edges, really
bleeding. Fluorescent lighting. Each
totes a pack oozing the PCBs of his
and her sad histories, a sort
of Germany.
Back in Act 12, voice
put down its animals and has taken up
the telephone, paring down to buzz whine
click.
I’m not home right now.
So what? I got your number
into which
you will reduce, or else:
the original recorded message, something muttering
for chrissake
let there be dark.