Tuesday, August 19, 2014

Lucia Anna Joyce

Lucia Anna Joyce

Lucia Anna Joyce

There are no more books...
to dance through, no meticulous typing
by father's secretaries...
lover-Beckett and Miss Boyle,
no clack-clack-typewriter-clack.

Today's dance is pink,
chrysanthemum dancing...
leaps beyond mental alcoves.
And black yarn, too, and a quarter moon...
old voices as handcuffs and chattering cameras.

That is the dancing after squawk-squawk-squawk
psychiatry.. and death... yes chain-link of death...
death as abbreviated Italian Trieste-spoken...
danced and never written down... starlight-danced. 

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