MARK YOUNG 

Look at Me, I’m Talking to You

Elsewhere, here, the
sky does not really
exist. Is either green-
screen backdrop from
in front of which

 actions are performed
for transposition to
make them real, or
else is open space upon
which a hologram

 may be projected. Form,
what there is of it, is
gained through the
curvature of the Earth,
the peripheral sight

 lines of optic nerves.
No clipped images to
overlay; so, filled-up
with facts from many
imaginings—castles,

 ships, a set of crystal
glasses, an eagle or
two. Words have no
place in it. She wonders
what color her eyes are.

& in Nome

The stage sets are
splendid, the props
are amazing, but
still the toxicology
reports get bigger
applause than the
musical numbers.