....across a land where mists of early morning Half withhold a melody intended For a single voice that can't quite clarify its sense Of place, simply because the place requires it. Blocking out our movement, The gardener left these clues: Stone steps Mount high into the court, encouraged by a brisk evening Breeze, tracking us into the call of a singular loon Crying for her mate against the far side Of a lake reflecting specifc notes of association Until we fell into its trap of wherever the card will lead, Dropping off its sealed packages of evidence Of what we might be saying to one another, Two dancers working out their parts Inside a practice studio, then ripping up the path We point ourselves toward, a dance in repertory For as long as it takes to master. Half on foot, half flying, following the inlaid pattern Across the floor until the pale mosic's picture Made clear the teller's tale, We slipped into a stolen palace as easily As opening a book chosen randomly From your library's shelf...
