A PRIMER ON ACTING

        i.m. Ker Wells

Just say what you see, damn it, say it plain,

clear, show nothing, and forget expressing

emotion, you'll have better luck squeezing

a turd through your tympanum. Blue heron

on her stilts in the silt-scummed shallows

of the Clyde never concentrates, but she's

paying attention and knows what to do

at her wait's end, executed with bloodless

aplomb. You on your stilts in the tall grass

of the riverbank, cousin, you too knew

a thing or two about killing your darlings

and the world's aloof procession. The moon,

waxing full, casts a wake on the ripples

of the river. I can see you stilting

across it, wings akimbo, bound for the far shore.