Karen Rigby

Two Poems

To Carolina Kostner on Boléro

XXII Olympic Winter Games, Sochi

Because I live for the comeback
staged in black—cold expanse waiting
to be writ—because I love

the way one arm lifts
in time to what Ravel imagined as a masterpiece
with no music, repetition made magic

only because each shift
intensifies, piston or hammer
in the ear, I love the ice that brings us

here, across the years spent counting spins—
                         an illusionist’s flight of doves,
          or samara in the rain.

Because I’ve walked through gray cities,
gray futures, I love the sudden break
as evidence of nothing, exactly,

but the surface of things tattooed with light
           before a cloud elides the hill.

I still believe in beauty—
           a measured movement, a name fogged
                          on a bus pane.

Whatever we love is already leaving.
Whatever we touch, dissolves.


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