Hunger

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

L'apres-midi 

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.