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The disguise of a prisoner,
I walk avenue A, this cigarette
doesn't belong in my hand,
small things are crowing
that will always sound
in some form,
silver and brown cross
to an antique ballroom
the town bought back from time
to keep a single dance
from falling into the basement files

Huge, grey eyes thistle over
a twilight room leaves color
a-drip in copper vases draining photosynth
to the shelved touch of petals
stacks of fringe that separate into ashes

Veins in the woodwork, a head nodding
over a rectangle of dust
a napkin from last night folded
in the breast pocket where a pigeon learned math--
planning a waltz
that something flinty in his knees won't learn
though the waist is undulant for salsa
the sidewalk is louder than ever with smokers.