ANN STEPHENSON
FABLE
They’ll be back next year with the true story
Of what became of their specialties
Baked after hours in the illuminated cave
Replete with wick and tapestry
Disarmed by wind, we relied on other senses
To approach the opening
Our dreams were projected onto the great mud wall
Laughter was an imaginary disease
And we threw our voices for good measure
Cacophonous bounces
This will be our pretext
Compressed to make space for others
Whenever they’re ready
To reappear in a room of Charms
There’s enough here to work with
A perfunctory glimmer
In a specialized niche of darkness
Cicadas alight on full beards
Just as the goat has its false engine