The dancers emerge over the salt flats

what they know they have in hand, they love
the human room, its basket of apples

arrivederci

histories waft in, grafted
in the moment to a ray of skin

"into the open well of centuries"
fly bodies cupping wreck and wear

fermata

break      upward to feel, green wings flee

heavy slips free, slit and cross-press
what isn't blessed, fresh-running

surrounded or not
torque       release       plot

the dancer folds suspended
there alone, half-known

After the light and the chandelier scraping,
the double-star making, it's hard to face
the red carpet, the casuistry show,

the vacuuming and dusting, the unquiet eye.
Do I wish I could give you "a bath of gold apples"
or "all the songs that sleep in history?" Maybe

this slant alternative is better-plucking lashes
from a winter magazine, little Domestic
winks, if we want, like Italian frames.

Night boats might ferry us further my friend.
Between our ribs, negatives of future architectures,
textures mind-nestled in flesh splinter-tender.

Let the bog-dwellers dream of American cars,
however grateful for "the Woman and the Dog."
We praise them all and drink our grape juices.