BETWEEN TWO HILLS

Between Beacon
and Nob Hills
in every encounter
of an impressionable solo
singing in the hail ,snow
of Verdi's Othello
prepared for tragedy
and screened out fury
out of tarot prophecy
or the changing pages
in a Pinter play
shaping my brows and bows
the stage whispers
that captures my past
of a literary coup
without patience
of a grief group
in a theater room
of arbitrary gloom.