Where are they going? They are moving
up through masses, shapes, densities.
They are midway between heaven and

earth, resting, having finished their
studies at the Flying Cloud Academy.
The two-step, the waltz. Their posture.

But something has gone wrong. Were they
meant to be so insubstantial? Call back
the teachers, the physicists and choreographers;

what is required is something more than a
minor readjustment. The fandango, the bolero.
But now, mid-air collisions, vacant stares,

motel rooms, usherettes nodding off
in alcoves. Independents replace the
studio system, and who is to say if this

is a good thing? The mountain is still
a mountain, reaching up toward the
ideograms. What do they mean?

I guess we’ll never know. Nevertheless,
other characters are perfectly legible, if
one is inclined to study. It’s a matter

of perspective. It’s a matter of practicing
the steps.

__________________________________

                                             mournful melodies;

Accomplished fingers

(I composed the holes).