The slats, scenic backdrops, plenty for one life,
will lift or slide the moving panorama of moments,
marking each instant or occasion with importance.
The enormous artistry fixed in views; minute portions
of the transcendent, setting the scene.
These sublime slices will flick-book moments of eternity
whether outside on the pavement, treading the boards
or sat alone in a comfortable chair. She deviated,
a random variable to their fixed value,
and they thought she was mean.
When the momentum of her absence is felt in each scene,
and you cannot find her there or anywhere,
forget all other points of view;
who is running down colonnades, falling through squares,
smashing the slats, warped enough to want you
sat, red on a park bench, panning into insignificance,
the September rose garden, the fireworks on a blue sky.
