It begins again, the nocturnal pulse. <br />It courses through the cables laid for it. <br />It mounts to the chandeliers and beats there, hotly. <br />We are too close. Too late, we would move back. <br />We are involved with the surge. <br /> <br />Now it bursts. Now it has been announced. <br />Now it is being soaked up by newspapers. <br />Now it is running through the streets. <br />The crowd has it. The woman selling carnations <br />And the man in the straw hat stand with it in their shoes. <br /> <br />Here is the red marquee it sheltered under. <br />Here is the ballroom, here <br />The sadly various orchestra led <br />By a single gesture. My arms open. <br />It enters. Look, we are dancing.<br /><br />Donald Justice<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-assassination/
