The Solitudes of August - V

I s'pose that I'll come back around
to the movie that watches itself,
my life - hear again the intervals of french horns
descend behind the purple horses
striding down new emerald mounds.

I know that somewhere in the town
plans are being drawn up
by invisible posses
for me.

All I have to give up is time
and a suspension of belief
that there are writers trying
to cry and laugh people into buying it.
I just hope that the players are likable,
or, if they can't be that, credible
or at least have some charisma to spare,
like fragrance in the air when the picture's over.

But I'll never know. There are too many people
in the cast. I can only imagine
their lines. Perhaps with enough imagining
I don't need to walk through the dream,
the film can be as it was once conceived,
before the suits and the editor's spools,

Before there was a need for me
to wear a turquoise ring and be an Indian,
or a ten-gallon hat to be a Cowboy.
(They're always, you see, on the lookout for heroes,
because nothing in human society
offers anything that may be called a victory,
always a reckoning required in time
in the balancing of gift and receipt).

For my part I hope that this story's 'bout being found,
some whale or some grail they almost go mad in finding,
one that was hiding behind the foyer door all this time
with the sepia-toned strangers in uniforms...

Who knows how it ends, when stories have a mind of their own
(as geometries naturally form from the prism of god's eye).
Characters don't always behave like equations
- always some factor invisible - a viewer? - to obscure it.