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The Assassination

 It begins again, the nocturnal pulse.
It courses through the cables laid for it.
It mounts to the chandeliers and beats there, hotly.
We are too close.
Too late, we would move back.
We are involved with the surge.
Now it bursts.
Now it has been announced.
Now it is being soaked up by newspapers.
Now it is running through the streets.
The crowd has it.
The woman selling carnations And the man in the straw hat stand with it in their shoes.
Here is the red marquee it sheltered under.
Here is the ballroom, here The sadly various orchestra led By a single gesture.
My arms open.
It enters.
Look, we are dancing.

by Donald Justice
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