Peter Waldor

And As For Music

Sad for people
to be shaped
like trees
and to have
no leaves,
so they are not
briefly beautiful
after death.
A boy points
at leaves falling
faster than feathers
slower than coins.
Though he will never
be red or yellow,
he laughs.
And as for music,
the rosin has cracked
off the crickets’ bows.
The boy hears
each instrument.

 

Cart At Night

A troupe of dancers,
between casinos,
yawn and joke
on their cart.
Between shows.
They recall
an old master’s
Gleaners Returning
From the Fields.
They laugh,
the great law
of dance,
which is we,
my friends,
are young
and beautiful
forever,
and you are
all passing
away.

 

Dancer

I could never restrain myself
enough to be a dancer,
never let my fingers
snow on the back.
I could never adore the master.
When a partner was covered
with sores I vomited.
When I have nothing to do
I do nothing.

 

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