FOREWORD

For a domestic theatre

The work would speak of an absence,
A phantom without presence.
Something is missing, yet all is same,
A mirage we are eager to claim.

The banquet of a feast now gone,
Found years later, under the dawn.
A pistol found that never fired,
A story that has grown tired.

What is known is found to be mixed,
A disarray that has been fixed.
What it tells is now transformed,
Its narrative, reborn.

Not knowing what to await,
Is a strange form of a fate.
An illusion one might see,
A curtain call upon a mystery.

A motionless displacement,
In a burrow of containment.
A small piece of something that's gone,
Around which the plot is drawn.

Here’s where the intrigue would unfold,
Around the specter, a story to be told.
Of fragmented reality, in search of sense,
The object's role, in all its pretense.

Where [spectral] and [spectacular]
come into play,
manifests the spectracular ,
one might say.