Some men, who collaborated self-consciously
with killers behind a one-way mirror darkly,
catching their breaths on every errant wind,

We wondered, Have we already been punched
into this world’s time clock often enough
to earn the preservation of a family tree

They see the hand of John the Baptist, kept,
a bit of sallow skin and withered flesh,

“Even stone rots,” stone seems to say

On a wooden platform in the center of the room
The young dancer stood, her naked feet in position:
The man would rather gaze at her white feet forever
Than ever hold them in his hands, paying her well