Le sacre du printemps

    Nijinsky, Paris, May 29, 1913

I have been offered a cup of alien wine,

ruby red, drawn from a blooded mind.

Nijinsky died looking at the sun

dreaming of trees falling

    one, by one.

Paris, city of wizards waving wands of impatience,

quick men of words with wide capes

aflourish, spinning in measured rehearsals

    where fawns die, looking at the sun.

The wine spills burning, firebirds

fly from my cup. The music of yesterday

still turning en pointe, his

tattooed mind still singing, son

of the Steppes, little boys from lands

of ice dance fastest, and

still I hear him singing.

My ears open to the wind;

tears of snow burn the cheeks of the dead

and everywhere,

    the scent of oranges.