I When Twyla Tharp begins again Her own sweet body to command, Charm of personality or face must vanish Into the reality of pattern. Soldiers lined up pidgeon-toed At the mosque, shot out their enemies' heart. What lies still beating in the cart? Was there passion in that slaughter? II There was a dream of feasting, and we fed on dreams. Instinct in the sculptor's palsied hand Creates where it divides, eating to the face of man As if stone were so much rotten wood. Although young, it seemed all dignity must be spent On sinking love or suborned monument. Where was the gamble if the loss lacked reality? We were young and solemn and did what we would.