T. R. HUMMER | For Dancers Only
Things turn ugly. Call it the entropy of beauty.
Just when the dance gets hot, somebody flashes a knife.
Just when the night sky emerges moonless from the smudge
Of twilight, a siren sounds and everyone goes under.
In the dark, O Jesus is the password. You said it, pal.
When the lights come on: blood on the sheets.
Come out of the closet with your blackjack
And your bottle of bleach. It's time for the wedding,
Time for the score to settle. Remember how we felt
When the trumpets lifted and riffed the midnight golden?
That moment sublimity burned its mark on our foreheads
And left us for dead. There's nothing now
But to wait for the hit man to show his decorous hand.
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