the flurry of strings
must have numbed her
& the feeling of some terrible
sting was close behind,
or perhaps a sick wave
might spill onto the
attraction of her piece.
will the water remain calm
in backdrop of artist’s loft,
knowing that in the nagging
onslaught the bowery will sing
without tweeds or longing?
was she thrown into emberness?
the statue of her eyes
chip away at me, & like a poet,
she stands off center.
the ballroom was blue & unmoved
& blended in with the sky.
the shell was that part left untouched.
Guy R. BEINING
from his series dollop 1-12.