AN HOUR TO DANCE
For a while we whirled
over the meadows of music
our sadness put away in purses
stuffed into old shoes or shawls
the children we never were
from cellars and closets
attics and faded snapshots
came out to leap for love
on the edge of an ocean of tears
like a royal flotilla
Alice’s menagerie swam by
no tale is endless
the rabbit opened his watch
muttering late, late
time to grow
old
—from Rattle #7, Summer 1997
