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As Redon's Ophelia danced in her flowers
Of yellow and white and red and blue,
As they swam about her, avatars of her
Fallen spirit, as she made her beauty of
Their briefest sounds, speaking words to
Them, seeming lost in their movement—
So too, you move, you smile, you curl
Your aged lip over your lower teeth, coy,
Graceful, holding a bright glass of white
Wine in your left hand, so that the light
Passes in the passing of the music through.
Your crown of blooms wobbles as you
Come forward into the dining room, as
You heave your broad shoulders beneath
A shapeless robe of linen. Ah, your white
Teeth and cavernous eyes! Harmon waits
To slowdance you, to cajole you, to draw
The love out of you—go to him!—be sure
Your perfume makes just as much a fool
Of him as you. Dance alone now, before
The lilies and the tungsten lamp and the
Blurred glow of the far city, in which you
Hold no greater part than does the music,
Than do the stars—let us sit down here like
Ladies and gentlemen, he says hoarsely,
Laughing in his quality of hopelessness
Through the clarity of his drink obscured.