Lachrymose d'amore Bedside reports- Here fingers are choreography itself, & these sheets are drawing pads, & the pillows refreshed dreams even as the flesh sinks & the skull becomes more bone... Brown doves, this tuft, that, of hair Leaving the head, but a dance goes on Nevertheless, a mash note, autumn-tinged, In free fall for vivid living- Spirals, leaps, improvised To be well placed pirouettes... You here, you... Breath draws forth, a pencil's whisper Waiting for the fulfillment of adrenaline. Toe shoes & skin, waiting for the onrush Hush of Nureyev- From the wings you also caught, brought Bouquets, ovations, center stage, held The promise of Petrochuhka, empyrean, From "The Nightingale"... So this ode goes clear as the legs Before the pcp bouts, the cryptococcus, Those vandals of an innocence feverish To the end. Love, why are my cheeks wet? There are footlights in the med pumps, Final bows from the curtains, & you stretch Out suspended, a Peter Pan smiling wide For the stars now, stars stillest, & you who were here echoing there always as the greatest wishes     © 2006 Stephen Mead