Act I
Twelve chimes sing into darkness. Stars sizzle like curiosity. Sea creatures swim upside down. This has never happened, may never happen again. Sun & Moon gaze at each other over dinner.
S Why do forbidden things compel me?
M You’ve resisted darkness for billions of years.
S That’s not an answer.
M Not every question needs one.
S Will you please dance with me?
M I only dance in you. You know this.
S Knowing offers little contentment.
Act II
At twilight, a woman lingers seaside after a swim, shivering, wringing out her long hair. She lifts her eyes and speaks, first to Venus, then to other heavenly bodies that begin decorating Night.
You spill like calligraphy from streetlights, shadow-plays where I’m understudy no more. Your spotlights illuminate the players, my loves, who walk in beauty, Byronesque. Your searchlights penetrate my pores. Some call your meteor debris my afterglow. You believe this is enough of you, but then your melody mezzo-sopranos to me, so I open my body across meadows, Night, waiting for your purple scarf to slip down. You constantly appear on my balcony to steal devotion already yours. My last poem to you may be a black hole. Prepare the fatted calf.