second waltz

On the nights that ring out in crystaline silence,

crisp and biting as january darkness

and clear and brittle as frosted starlight,

we waltz like the ruffled lace of snowflakes,

sweeping our trains

and swirling in vain

as though this twilight atmosphere

were a ballroom striking midnight,

where streetlamps pour the gold

of rusting chandeliers

to light these quivering moments

which, like champagne flutes in the hands of shock,

are flung into fears

as deep as the graves of innocent debutantes:

fallen from heaven before they arrive,

and I walk through your snowdrifts,

through the shards of broken glass

with one slipper

and one numbed, deadened,

bleeding foot.