Eve, We Are Old

The season for dances is over.
Musicians hung up their set and a crowd gathered
on the lawn, ladies quietly to one side,
mostly gesturing, long legs holding them up.

Spring has done, and there need not be dances
anymore. I read somewhere
that when the Sung Chinese hunted deer
they left one side open, an escape;

out of fairness, a sense for sport?
What happens to us when we hide,
the hunt rolls past
howling, what’s left?

Achilles dimmed, who would not fight
or run away.
The chaperone locks up and leaves,
rubbing his neck. All down the street

children walk home tall and strong, dragging their shoes.
Once you stood up shaky in your legs
and I drained the punch bowl to watch you dance,
glass after glass, spinning, mouthing the dregs.

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