apres minuit
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i'll pose you no questions until after
midnight when the coaches are late and my
     slippers are dust.
when knights without maidens leave restively
saddened.

i dance like the moonlight on my
private veranda and search for a path
magic pumpkins have trod. pretend i'm like
dust fairies used on the chosen -- a vestige
that beaus nobly sought will be won.

     but my slippers are fading.
     i'm locked in these chambers.

like rapunzel i scout from my towering fortress
that some have admired for its ivy on stone.
a maiden -- i wonder when pumpkins will claim me,
sporting princes who'll stoop to check for my slippers --
dust off the webs on my hope-cindered heart.

and just before midnight i listen for footsteps,
hear only the others who prattle and call (my
coaches have faded on others' horizons)
my walls are too tall. aphrodite is dead.

and i'll pose silent questions while scoffing
at festoons of these maidens of folklore
who shine in the end.

why'd i hang down my hair and dress for the princes
when the shoes were too fitting

too late now too gone?

hli
(1/09/95)