In the garden’s bowl of sugar, a company of bees is circling me.
They have my back—not stinging,
In the shape of Isadora’s scarves in August wind.
Such a long time gone for anyone to find me here.
Come to the crinoline fields with me, and fold.
I lay down there once, quite alone,
In the oval shape of a Vague.
It is true, for example, that Miss Duncan kept her protégées (her
Isadorables) tucked in her own school of silk, batiste, and hurrying,
Where pique unfolded boundlessly, i.e., the dead
Don’t quarrel and will listen, finally, to Lucie now—still scribbling
Beneath her white uncorseted umbrella in the first draft of an early fall.