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 guess
where we might belong? If only those
in front would stand and turn, shadows
dancing on their faces.

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