Monday, January 10, 2011

(For Simone)

Girls just like to dance
to the politics,
wear the stamina
of a rosy Spain pear,
each one a clerk and tangle
of facets and fatalism.

Girls gleaming with Pavlovian
automatic, lubricated and absent,
posies for the camera, a tonic flash
like fireflies, fever moths,
subterranean sugar.

    Then belle and belle in the snow—
    smooth as jeweled hands over a mine
    beneath Dickens, dismantling
    the music with unfocused meticulous.

Public and nocturnal,
girls just like to dance
to the plotlines of gadgetry,
from bridle to girdle,
each hoping the butter unbeaten
by life spreads on morning toast.

    Yet we have text in our eyes
    and celosia smiles. Your record
    is on and the dance floor
    your aquarium: your operatic hair
    silks new notches
    in the air behind you.

Saturday, January 1, 2011