Why are you apologizing
for the one art
that has always been there 





Why are you apologizing
for the one art
that has always been there
             has scarlet blossoms
to turn against
            with your titles
and your manner when
you read
             Some may argue
it’s unequivocally spring
You walk out of Beth Israel
             to find them
A mentor has fallen and

and you sit in Stuyvesant Square
about reception, why
They are edible
can grow in semi-shade
if you’re only going to make
dark pinks
             in an age of
wilt disease, can you hold on
I’m being literally
pelted with flowers
              on this bench
dedicated to

who presides over a pool
in Hades
Do you know about the Sabbath
elevator, how it runs
stops at every floor
             to circumvent the law
You can’t operate a switch
in hospitals where
             mentors learn
to walk. Their gowns
Non-Jews may be employed
            to press

or hold the doors
            are paper, it is all
Some would argue
paper at this point, but you
know better
            Is there a Muse
for knowing better
prematurely flowering
It is time
             to put precocity
Behind me, I can hear
             someone leaving
I am keeping you abreast

keeping you without
until the tests confirm
it’s unequivocally
a fountain they’re restoring
inside you
             with a stent
to circumvent the law
of age in an
             age of an
Are you still there
to turn against
             fascicles of small
















Now that I’m of age I believe
the link between all the arts
is lighting something in a doorway

then separating slowly
walking back across the bridge
between painting and photography

between painting and performance is
running the palm side of your hand
over her dress until the air becomes

a brief conductor. I walked on the wrong
side to Aaron’s reading, had to press
myself against the chain link fence

each time bikes passed until
panicking, I just ran behind a slow one
for the rest of its length, emerging

into Chinatown, lungs burning,
covered in sweat, embarrassed, early.
I thought the kids were smoking, but

when they separated I could see
sparklers, white magnesium phasing
into orange, must have been a holiday

between arts. It’s not a link
if you stop for a while, a decade even,
because that’s a sister art, renunciation

sculptural in effect, positing a viewer
you can shadow, trail out into the sun
until it’s life you’re on the side of, finally.

I’m afraid one day we’ll learn that
we were the most powerful figures
in modern dance, and just stood there.



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