Rondo
by Janet Holmes
The noun one keeps batting away
refuses declension.
He says, I don’t want to be
twenty-four again.
Twenty-four was a handful:
the flawless
meatflesh, best self, miraculous
leap/thump on the hardwood,
the twist and splash.
The exuberance
in the present tense,
the timebound blood pump
two throbbing lungs butt
in their bone cage
surges to bursting.
He does not perdure
in this internal defection:Ritornello
so rare, and so heroic.
To this you must admit
Her skin was a coat of glitter
amber-lit.
She whispered the wind in code-
her sharp canines could not remit
a simple slither
at the funeral home visitation..
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