About nothing -- like the gusts
That occupy the streets
Subject to the black flight of hats;
But then a dancer emerged

A whirlwind of muslin or
Fury scattered in skimmings
When she raised her knee
The same way we lived

For, apart from him, hackneyed
Spiritual, drunk, motionless
Struck by her tutu,
Without otherwise fretting

Otherwise laughing that could be air
From her skirt to fan Whistler

03/10/2008