If I begged you to stay,/if I begged you to take me away? What then?/But I don’t.
A TIRED SALON
It is the dance not the dancer that we enjoy,
don’t we? Take this tremolo that we sing
under our breaths—shall we run off?
Will you take me away? Beg me. Beg me.
But you won’t. Never did. Or will. Will you?
There would be no need for that now—
time has run out on us. The music ends
when lights also fade in our tired salon.
Still, the faltering notes of what we want
to say but can’t—or won’t– -becomes
the stuttering messages lost with the wind
and are faint echoes in an empty salon.
If we can stop the flight of these desires,
Would we hold on to them and not be scared?
—Albert B. Casuga