It is the set designer's curse,
to lose all trust in what appears,
never off guard in case that door
you thought would open onto boulevards,
or bedrooms turns to balsa in your hand,

kicks open to reveal the wooden struts
that prop up the facade,
or in a restaurant you notice
that the drapes are not hemmed,
stale bread, apple juice for brandy.

It must stoke in you a rage for truth,
to tear down flats and props,
gut the canvas, shatter all the sugar glass,
ask questions that could only be answered
by your truest lovers, oldest friends.

Then set light to what remains,
until you kneel on blackened ground,
bury your face and eat the dirt.

Michael Symmons Roberts was shortlisted for the Forward and TS Eliot prizes and won the Costa Poetry award for Drysalter (Cape). His Selected Poems was published this year. He has also written two novels as well as nonfiction and radio verse drama, and collaborated with several composers as a librettist.