and where there is no music, we will find it in the silence.
the glide of light or wind or rain or thought, building what lasts
on the rubble of failed allegiances, the banners of pretender-regents
cut to stitch into bandages for the mercenary hearts we cherished.

perished promises, sewn like rough silk into dresses for the ladies
who waited for both or either of us to cast more than a glance
as we dance decades beneath tread and time and memories made to stand
a test which we can only guess at the proper answers, no matter our preparation.

reparations paid to those who built in the no-man's-land between dreams
where we could only tie our hopes to invisible wings of lofty conceptualizations
of love and light and life and an all-knowing, all-powerful, all-loving God,
wherein lies the metronome for the music to which we must learn to gavotte.

wrought-iron embellishments that stand like inarguable gargoyles,
making sling bullet of an eyebrow raised in sincere, if misinformed, doubt.
bring me the last of your nectar, and I will spin honey to draw a thousand 
winged things to make merry and multiply the savour as we save our time.

a crime of fortune paid off in penance and pence and the pretense
of passion that blossomed like rice-paper flowers in the rain, petals washed
clean, then washed away to make a riddle of the words upon them,
when we knew their truth was simple, and eloquent, and evocative to dance.


copyright William F. DeVault (wfdv)