Dancer*
Sprawled in tights
On floorboards in the tiny
Square of time drafted between
Rehearsals near the end
Of the war, page after page
He browses something
Distracting from the beginning
Through, the spine
Of the book broken
His shoulders exhausted
Foreshortened by the score
He has all morning bent
His body to, dark harmonies
Forcing the world in
To step with his own
Without remorse
He removes himself
Gives in, pas
À pas, to oblivion
Reading himself beyond
Men yet to return
And others who never will
The precise squares
Of time he is
Loaned so necessary
So seldom spared.
* Paul Cadmus (1904–1999), egg tempera on pressed wood panel, 1945 1.5 x 1.25 inches
Page(s) 279-280
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