There's a poem I'm going to read but haven't
read in a long time.
It's because it's going to be in the forthcoming Bantam
Anthology of Modern American Poetry.
But I thought maybe I get used to it
before I saw it in print again.
I don't know.
It's not a poem I would've selected for any anthology.
You really can't tell what editors will like.
It's called "Figures in a Ruined Ballroom."
The chandeliers hemorrhage, Tritons
weep for the plaster dolphins.
The pheasant in its glass room feeds on candle droppings.
Apothecaries cannot heal the wax dogs,
sutures will no longer save Apollo,
nor violins awake the stuffed ospreys.
Roses in this carpet grow from a soil of forgotten shoelaces.
And those eyes, which gleamed at cotillions
now jostle the glands of mendicants.
Dust is King.
Neptune burns in the sea.
On a sepia cliff Aphrodite sits, plaiting a braid of tears.
These statues turn by concealed levers.
Their hinges fold in on mortality.