‘and something that … that is theirs—no longer ours’

stammered to me the Italian page. A wood

seeded & towered suddenly. I understood.—

The Leading Man’s especially, and the Juvenile Lead’s,

and the Leading Lady’s thigh that switches and warms,

and their grimaces, and their flying arms:

our arms, our story. Every seat was sold.

A crone met in a clearing sprouts a beard

and has a tirade. Not a word we heard.

Movement of stone within a woman’s heart,

abrupt and dominant. They gesture how

fings really are. Rarely a child sings now.

My harpsichord weird as a koto drums

adagio for twilight, for the storm-worn dove

no more de-iced, and the spidery business of love.

The Juvenile Lead’s the Leader’s arm, one arm

running the whole bole, branches, roots, (O watch)

and the faceless fellow waving from her crotch,

Stalin-unanimous! who procured a vote

and care not use it, who have kept an eye

and care not use it, percussive vote, clear eye.

That which a captain and a weaponeer

one day and one more day did, we did, ach

we did not, They did … cam slid, the great lock

lodged, and no soul of us all was near was near,—

an evil sky (where the umbrella bloomed)

twirled its mustaches, hissed, the ingenue fumed,

poor virgin, and no hero rides. The race

is done. Drifts through, between the cold black trunks,

the peachblow glory of the perishing sun

in empty houses where old things take place.