Tiers of dusty benches, and all those
whose skin and breath feed the film
in the flickering glow anchored
at the back of my head.
Front, back, and all in-between are
brimming with the being of everything
I've ever known, in silence still
waiting for a word.
How did we find our seats or feel out
where we might belong? If only those
in front would stand and turn, shadows
dancing on their faces.