Ode to the dead (maybe not yet). Then dims. 
A beseeching sentence:  
Everyone’s in place. One’s place.  
Food also knows where it belongs. Rapid in general.  
 
The proscenium brightens. Thinned out. 
Is it sub-luminous un-inhibiting our endowment?   
 
Knowing the ropes to scale now, even substance,  
clearing the theatre of lame comforts,   
 
stern, food pecked over, even down  
to our place, last place, last row.