The Plastic Sense of Playing Fair

In an autumnal scene, forgetting the spring rain, a glow of orange engaging a sentence that runs thru coarse adjectives. People stare, starting from their numbers to the crown worn in the last act. Everyone is jilted or jostled, until movement itself seems to relieve a shadow of ache. Times fracture, peasants gather by huts and dance, and poor Giselle, her heart bad. All hearts struggle, even allowing diffidence among cherubim. Rain starts to act like process, tho we wish it were fall. Leaves unencumber, a burial starts and never stops. The poor poem, in the words of this chase, can only arrive at a neat locution. Such never fulfills the best of the drama. The Red Sox send the sky high with criminal wattage thru the night. Buoyant animus contains the city, even the truth of taxis. Prince Albrecht in a can, say, and you phone for a moment; meanwhile, the Prince leaps and flips his legs. You could try this at home, when the beaming rain settles into your night and sleep is only a matter of choice. The dreams, nearby, that you come to, weird elastic use of orange hues and the stress of fading. So much remains, still, folded, with the elegant grime that only a city can manufacture. Will anyone tip over? Might splendour become particle, in a mass reference to some logic that inheres in the pieces we take home? If these merrymaking saturdays settle into rain called fog, then sunday, weary, means a new ocean to contain. Dance seems envious when we are so conditioned. Poor Giselle, poor Hilarion, poor Albrecht. A lot of death just goes by the board, but this is a nation of equivalency tests. The grey trench reveals a brood of green that stammers with our first-born thought. Autumn in the dance ahead is a tower of prose turned carefully awry. Sleep doesn't general the entire march, but uncovers certain portions of the drama. In the end, it left nothing vilified to stand and clap. Such is the performance in a word or two.