Becoming…

When are things finished
or unfinished:
Is it necessary to depict
until the mottled woman
playing the violin,
serenading the dancer,
who bows to Angels
painted flat on doors,
which become walls,
and on into Cathedrals
of the dream,
and its power over
the uniformity of women
and their privacy,
trapped in images
of blue and red;
building the confusion of
the mind that troubles
about its labored past
in triumphs and beatings,
of loves and hatreds centuries old.
Bowing out sounds
that danced in gaping tutus,
angelic and yet strangely
out of focus in the
psych of this chaotic world
of doors, arches, windows
and bars, where the melody
was driving, but we could not
hear its significance
under the restraint of the
great sonatas carrying
men of import onto glass towers
of manipulation and striving,
but on and on she played
her violin in the
soft pastels of time.