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A Dancer
Beauty was not born mutable that time: no motion encircled it and let it go; steady as vision and unvarying it kept its ideal state until the dark. Someone tears up the unsold tickets; the doors are locked ; and the terraced darkness is left to draughts and the settling dust ; sleep advances, meeting little resistance. We have the smoke blown on the avenue, the expected expenses, the usual wear and tear, the records misplaced, lost sooner or later. Familiar hands stretched in alien gestures will make us wonder, turning to windows and the wind blowing out of the grey east.