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There's a poem I'm going
to read but haven't

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read in a long time.

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It's because it's going to
be in the forthcoming Bantam

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Anthology of Modern
American Poetry.

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But I thought maybe
I get used to it

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before I saw it in print again.

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I don't know.

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It's not a poem I would've
selected for any anthology.

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You really can't tell
what editors will like.

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It's called "Figures
in a Ruined Ballroom."

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The chandeliers
hemorrhage, Tritons

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weep for the plaster dolphins.

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The pheasant in its glass room
feeds on candle droppings.

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Apothecaries cannot
heal the wax dogs,

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sutures will no
longer save Apollo,

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nor violins awake
the stuffed ospreys.

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Roses in this carpet grow from
a soil of forgotten shoelaces.

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And those eyes, which
gleamed at cotillions

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now jostle the
glands of mendicants.

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Dust is King.

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Neptune burns in the sea.

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On a sepia cliff Aphrodite
sits, plaiting a braid of tears.

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These statues turn
by concealed levers.

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Their hinges fold
in on mortality.

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