AT THE MUSEUM
AT THE MUSEUM place of stones and bones and jewels the silence of the past the pictures that have no voice to speak but she is here to launch her book (how far it needs to sail, how high it must soar) and we are with her now magically aloft, staring down like the gods exhilarated, even as we are sad-eyed for so much of could have been is written here between the lines so much strange promise that has been lost for here are the faces who were not solely of their moment, or turned to the past but facing us squarely, asking us about a future that was absolute conjecture, looking at us directly as if we are what they never, could not, or always imagined she reads the poem from her preface and like sky and Earth like Earth and sea here is where the personal meets the political here is the dance that (forget the shifts in style) we have always done across the sand over stone and bone roads freshly cut, still wet the tarmac