She called her dance ‘Unknown Pleasures’
performing in some godforsaken place
on the back of a flat-bed truck
cement dust in the wind
She has an agent
She is an artist

Sometimes in the tap tap tap
Sometimes in the languid
desiccated sound of fallen leaves
Sometimes in a storm
Most often
in a whisper

There is nothing in this world
which does not take me away from you
Only when the wind blows
memories bring you back
The wind can blow softly
hardly at all
it is the same
It is enough
to stir my memory

Something secret and pointless
collects in the trees this time of year
weighting them down
lighting them up
and in the air at dusk
gathers like migrating birds

The summer sky
above the plain where she dances
is vast
For a while
the vastness is tender
then the tenderness
beside the tawdry disco lights
grows unfathomable
and her movements
seem ugly and ridiculous
She is struggling and suffering
with an insect’s jerk
The men stare at her
They want her but
don’t really

Sometimes
she just stops thinking
The sublime opacity
of ordinary things
surrounds her
Her face is a blank
same as the things
She stares straight ahead
without expression
and the future
goes on

The wind blows
cement dust
memories
sometimes blossoms
then dying leaves
then blossoms
They all turn to memories
the wind blows
in the end
and then
simply to the wind

But she is young
When she cries sometimes
she doesn’t know why
only
demands are being made on her
She doesn’t understand them
Why must she be
like this?
What can she do
with all her life?
What can she need?
Where can she go?
What does the new road
want with her?

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