This poem was written after the assassination
of Robert Kennedy, which I had watched on television.
And it keeps talking about it, it, it all the way through.
One of my best friends and readers
thought the poem was about something else.
So I had forgotten to put the title on it.
So that I now put the title and the day and everything else.
I want to make everything clear as possible.
And I want to say, the it means, something like blood.
Or death, or violence.
And it-- well, "The Assassination."
It begins again, the nocturnal pulse.
It courses through the cables laid for it.
It mounts to the chandeliers and beats there, hotly.
We are too close.
Too late we would move back.
We are involved with the surge.
Now, it bursts.
Now, it has been announced.
Now, it is being soaked up by newspapers.
Now, it is running through the streets.
The crowd has it.
The woman selling carnations and the man in the straw hat
stand with it in their shoes.
Here is the red marquee it's sheltered under.
Here is the ballroom.
Here the sadly various orchestra led by a single gesture.
My arms open.
It, enters.
Look, we are dancing.