On watching Shakespeare

Watching them act, there are a thousand ways
and a thousand words to explain the heart;
watching them be, become, be undone
by scenes at the end
of that marvelous play;

play on words, play on minds, play on
me, sweet waves of visions through windows
enraptured by faces. I know all of you
better than the play knows itself--

for these are the words of a spirit entranced, who never dared dance;
the road of one who shies when they walk,
who yearns when they talk, who leaks, who becomes only
what has already been made.

I want to know, where in this life do I fit
like a piece, when so many pieces have fractured. We
reach across the stage and bright lights to
another, breathing, playing, acting
the part: living the dream, dying the death.