Of what unutterable parlance

Do the bells blow?

Of what unkowable utterances

Does the wounded seraph murmur?

Does she have concern

Over the moonlight

Bleeding into the sky?

Or of her sisters strumming their viols

With a masquerade so lachrymose?

All whilst singing paeans

in the minor mode.

Does she feel the blows of drums?

The jeers of her heart?

White figures, praising

Their disquietness as they shriek;

   “_Dance!_

_ Dance!_ _ Dance!_” Or, perhaps… Her scullery drapes, Of which prior owners Left no trace as they sat her, Sylphlike beauty, On their lap And reviled her. In her decay of silence, where has she wandered? Obsolete, she must be now Where is she now? Where has she withered? Where has she gone forgotten After stripped, Intermingled, Battered, her face balled in her hands. Where can one see In the kingdom of God The drapes of her silk finery Trickling down like tears All into the cascade Blowing, Scattering, Atop Athenian ruins, Chasing ancient voices of children.