fire in that square floodlit by crimson gels left onstage a floating red silk scarf that snaked around the nimblest calves unable to outlast Mozart's legacy or Pater's gemlike flame abandoned dream erased by edicts of the blood the song the space with both feet off the ground if only for a moment elephantine memory as the curtain falls full weight the voice of Kathleen Battle amplified fades away five years to the day and still your body as it was caught between Isadora and the wheel and not what it has become a form that those who live must bear
An Evening Train
whistles past hacked-down fields of corn, heading towards a boy who whittles an effigy of himself. We go on sleeping through sirens and crimson strobes flashing on remains no one can identify till we line up at dawn to see who's missing. At the zoo this morning, a girl found half-devoured in a moat, two lions licking their chops, Little Rock, Arkansas the only proof left on her body to show how far she was from home, a tattered copy of The Odyssey later found in her purse. Did she love her life? We warn our children not to lay their ears down on the tracks in wintertime, knowing how it's not always best to know what's coming our way.