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.
