by Carol Casey
All the world’s a stage
an awkward, gangly, in-between phase
a coach roaming the universe lightly
speeding passengers fretting over vegetables
that strut through a wilderness of rotting
timetables carrying a postcard from God
to herself having a lovely time, wish you were
here, see you in the light when the curtain
drops on Act One intermission between us
the “sans” are interminable with their trails of
light folding in upon themselves, the poor
players, the idiot’s tale signifying everything
in the spaces between words entropy will
bind our hands as we dance through.
All the world’s a stage.
Pupa, larva or butterfly?
We don’t know and when we do know
It won’t matter.