(SCENE: THE COUPLE are in the bathroom,
off stage. The audience cant see them, but
THE POET is cutting THE LOVER's hair.
Perhaps the sound of scissors or their occasional talk,
echoing in the tiled room, carries and is audible
to the first few rows. But the stage is lit and the birds
are building nests, coming in and out of open windows,
bringing material in from the street: the usual twigs,
but also plastic straws, frayed ribbon, a bit of bent wire.
The construction is complex and watching them
shape the gathered stuff is enough to watch.)

Can you believe I ever fought the swell,
that there was once no room beyond the gate
and I would kneel to listen for the knell,
pouring within it, dropping with its weight?
As if the heart, afraid of loss, could know
which risk is worth the pain, or what remorse
does to the mind, unloved... Carrion crow,
black vulture that you are, or were, of course
the meat is sweeter when alive, the center
of the wrought world goes dead, useless unused.
Dont keep the secret. Dont deny itEnter
what you thought was closed. To you. Become amused
by the sorry soldiers who mistook your land
for theirs. And planted towns, changed your plans.
                                    towers

(There is a flash of light and the birds flee
from their work. The front door of the apartment
unlocks and THE COUPLE enters. THE LOVER's
hair is dry.)

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