So it’s not light at all you want to sing the praises of
or find yourself indebted to. The allure of sleep
doesn’t make you long to accept anything,
not even that this woman, who seems to be
sleeping, might be a death bed portrait missing
the mourners who are in the next room
sharing memories of the dead woman you want
to believe is only sleeping, who has you
alert to the uncertainty time would have us
acknowledge & try to name, who wants you
to have no doubt of her name & to know
she is asleep, worn out from dancing a sarabande
over & over to a music no one knew the name of,
though everyone who heard it knew it wanted to be danced to,
& she did, with such grace & for so long
one of the musicians decided it should have her name
& so he asked her & she smiled & kissed his cheek & left
without saying a word. She sleeps in
a light hesitant to say much about time,
especially the past. Though the court musician has been
without words or the breath to say them
as long as she’s been asleep, if you stare at this painting
long enough you might swear
you hear something you’ll say must be classical,
something formal played in triple-time,
& the music you’re not at all sure you hear
will be enough you’ll find yourself dancing.
