Trumpets over glassy hillsides mourn;
The burning of gazettes and memories
Of Caesar’s fall; of heaving seas.
The jewels and lace, too pale to adorn
The Queen’s collarbone, her face
A paler shade of gray, of chalk.
Too brittle now, she rolls to walk
The slightest fall her coup de grace.
The sound of bells, she’s ripped awake
To shadows ball-room dancing on the wall.
His face reminds her of her life, that’s all,
In every frame and photograph she takes
Down from the pegs. In cabinets,
In drawers she leaves them flat.
Bins of water; saucers for the cats.
Wind catches every eve and bow in pirouettes,
While Fates drift silently from word to word
From death to death, from lips to air.
The people have all gone down to the fair;
They move about in miniature, like promises unheard.