Sketches of a Dead Man Breakfasting with God -- Star Black


Ballets seem mechanical these days,
obtundent in the glaze
of new stuff,
yet, a barrage of legs is enough
to stop the clock in a violet symphony.
Blame the Pleiades,
they are nameable and please,
they are Ariadne's diamond trousseau,
they are satin toes.
Long ago, in the gridiron thrusts of early Fall,
car-trunk picnics with flasked gin
were preludes to costume balls
of Apollonian-padded men...
Oh, nevermind,
heroes huddle in the thrall,
and recollection
is the whine of time.

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