Ark

A calm, rising voice here signifies

the suppression of history rent and loosing something it had trapped,

stifled in its hour of quiet rage

and curiosity, is detached

and yet a part of the action: a whisper

in the winter dusklight, led by the hand into the warmth of a Christmas chill under a side door, and through it

into shadows, chutes of dresses, shadows

fleeing in curiosity, and this voice, unanswered like poison, and hidden

from the swordsman who looks behind

a mask behind which—no, that’s

all, and the man closes the door softly behind him,

introduces himself loudly, intoning—and I

can’t understand him, or who, and why

are they so hostile? A nobleman

retches on the floor, a coin rolling in on itself—is the wheel

upon which stormed Bastilles and bored and lonely postmodern hearts lie—

Give me that! We’re reaching the end

of the measure, and the hourglass in the hands

of the girl is overturned at the bridge

and the fireworks are so very much and I get the feeling

they’re dead, don’t know.

Where is the Empress? And how, look—! We’ll

follow this gentleman, here. Look!

Such marvelousness! What pretentiousness!

Those, up there,

those arches are immaculate! The words

don’t quite match the movement of our mouths,

a little off. Perhaps this too

is intentional. Them, those men sitting over there,

can they see us? The dialogue

stops, as it does in waking reality or would—and is about

as indominable. A rejection happens, and too soon he turns away.

Her disc-shaped wings are in balance with suppleness of her flesh,

her weight on her arm. The doughiness

of the marble! Suppose it must take art for us

to learn to appreciate art.

And history. These days.

I should know, should probably

know where it’s going.