the snow neglected to cover me. i kept dancing just ahead to keep my heart in sight, above this hidden city. some of us are blind, so when all is silent and no language is too embarrassing, we all began to pray. not on a sunday. not in a wafered, cautious tone. our sounds were more piercing and hurt, as if it needed to reach an audience on the other side of a very crowded cave-disco club. what is a poet for, other than to scream ourselves into admiration?

it is monday night and we are plotting our place in history, figuring out all those fisted hearts out there, addressing ourselves to flowers and photographs of less painful occasions. what else could we do when the town is savagely decorated, when feathers were torn to make medalled collars, and i was forever at risk of wickedness?

where is our love now? probably following some vagabond fisherman, heaving itself across the ocean floor, testing its own against the wind. it is waiting for another hero to rescue it, and shine it into some perfect configuration, more gem-like, how entertaining it would be then!