In a PBS documentary, from a drawer
the ballerina pulled a love poem
penned by the late choreographer

Jog around our reservoir of dreams, Jackie,
diamonds dripping from your eyes
as a load of cameleopards trot

The stars, invoking the higher gods
of AFIRA and SAG,
will not appear tonight,

One’s face in the intaglio’d window:
ghost to pentimento, and back to
ghost. An afterthought on tile,