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Of The Ever-Changing Agitation In The Air

Written by: Jorie Graham | Biography
 The man held his hands to his heart as
 he danced.
He slacked and swirled.
The doorways of the little city blurred.
Something leaked out, kindling the doorframes up, making each entranceway less true.
And darkness gathered although it does not fall .
.
.
And the little dance, swinging this human all down the alleyway, nervous little theme pushing itself along, braiding, rehearsing, constantly incomplete so turning and tacking -- oh what is there to finish? -- his robes made rustic by the reddish swirl, which grows darker towards the end of the avenue of course, one hand on his chest, one flung out to the side as he dances, taps, sings, on his scuttling toes, now humming a little, now closing his eyes as he twirls, growing smaller, why does the sun rise? remember me always dear for I will return -- liberty spooring in the evening air, into which the lilacs open, the skirts uplift, liberty and the blood-eye careening gently over the giant earth, and the cat in the doorway who does not mistake the world, eyeing the spots where the birds must eventually land --



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