Under this lens

The theatre is empty, the stage bare And dim, at a folding table An actor puzzles over his part; Soon he moves among the metal chairs On chalk marks, now sitting on a dusty settee, Now leaning against the flats for mantelpiece. Choosing from a pocketful of clues He begins to weave these unlike skeins, Forming a character with a new walk, A new voice, and new perceptions Until, with frayed edges trimmed straight, He can slide each strand through The writer's truthful eye. For one shining moment the stage seems illumined And, under this lens, minds and hearts converge.

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