Something about the broom handle
On which my hyper soul hangs
Like a tattered coat
The way Yeats said.
I saw you walk, chocolate in hand,
And I told my core to stop soaring.
We turned left off Wilson Boulevard
Under a charmed sky not yet heaving the sun.
I used to want to fly to Rome, then you said you were shy and ,spellbound, I tried to bow good-bye like Nureyev; but that sky, though full of grace, wouldn’t let me.
Night, the end, with its low, warped moon—
Then curtain until the Bay of Dublin.