upon a shot that lit the roof alight, June 29, 1613

The cannon cracked—too loud for stagecraft's game, 
Its echo swallowed jest and breath alike; 
That spark, unmeant, leapt high to catch the flame, 
Where thatch stood dry as tinder, ripe to strike. 
The players froze mid-line, their throats gone tight, 
Eyes tilted up where straw betrayed its role. 
A murmur passed like weather through the night— 
Then chaos surged like fire without a soul.

The boards we loved gave way beneath our feet, 
The pit grew hot as panic took the floor. 
No speech could mask the gallows of that heat— 
Just ash and shouting pouring through the door.

The globe, she burned—but left a ghost behind, 
In every line we’d yet to speak or find.