OVERTURE III

Once yesterday, or maybe yesterday, at dawn,

I sat in the garden, mending The Poet's head,

One ear beyond repair, the other trumpeted,

Mouth dumb; but in his blue and lidless eyes

I heard the hoofbeats of The Cowboy's mare

And, cautious lest my movement summon him,

Rose, mysterious to shut the garden gate.

The hoofbeats dwindled. I returned, surprised

To find The Cowboy seated in my cast-iron chair,

Slouched and arrogant, fumbling to undo

The bloodied bandage in The Poet's hair.

I rustled. Even the words I spoke were dry:

"You are my image; the broken speechless face

You hold within your hands is my face too."