mercredi, juin 20, 2012


It is an equivocal gift you give me
The generosity of a stranger
Forgetting was most convenient.
Awaking though not for the coward
Flooded I am
with the taste of days 
gone in which I was 
a part of 
world larger than this quiet byway.
Foot struck tile
Arms out
Whirling down the nave
Recollecting too
Counterpoint in 17th-century time
In the library near Julliard
A girl not yet a woman
Dreams she sees
Nijinsky dance
Diaghilev live
In the stacks in Lincoln Center
She lifts her head for a moment
Hears the music, the dance
it is...then.
What is to come
for the woman who does not dance
or raise her voice in sweet polyphonic madrigals?
Methinks she can still hear.

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