THERE IS A TIME

(FOR THE SPIRIT OF JOSÉ LIMÓN)

Looking for my seat
at tonight's dance performance:
It is very dark,
and I fall, bashing my ribs
against the balcony rail.

The beat has gone out
of my body--like air leaves
a balloon, slowly;
I didn't notice it was
now a bag of brittle bones.

At this time of life,
how do we choreograph
the pace of aging--
how to find the right music
for a face in the mirror

hiding behind the
remembered face we put on
every morning
to become invisible?
Which pace is right for walking

alone in the street?
It is a time for treading
lightly, avoiding
cracks in the sidewalk: the back
you break could now be your own.

May 30, 2010