The man held his hands to his heart as <br /> he danced. <br />He slacked and swirled. <br />The doorways of the little city <br />blurred. Something <br />leaked out, <br />kindling the doorframes up, <br />making each entranceway <br />less true. <br />And darkness gathered <br />although it does not fall . . . And the little dance, <br />swinging this human all down the alleyway, <br />nervous little theme pushing itself along, <br />braiding, rehearsing, <br />constantly incomplete so turning and tacking -- <br />oh what is there to finish? -- his robes made <br /> rustic by the reddish swirl, <br />which grows darker towards the end of the <br />avenue of course, <br />one hand on his chest, <br />one flung out to the side as he dances, <br /> taps, sings, <br />on his scuttling toes, now humming a little, <br />now closing his eyes as he twirls, growing smaller, <br />why does the sun rise? remember me always <br /> dear for I will <br />return -- <br />liberty spooring in the evening air, <br />into which the lilacs open, the skirts uplift, <br />liberty and the blood-eye careening gently over <br /> the giant earth, <br />and the cat in the doorway who does not <br /> mistake the world, <br />eyeing the spots where the birds must <br />eventually land --<br /><br />Jorie Graham<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/of-the-ever-changing-agitation-in-the-air/
