We have no choice but to see our friends
through these last pavanes,
no special claim is needed now
to bid us stand by the pattern's edge
bringing our wallflowers
to deck the gates, mark the days
music of eyes, voice, hands
that clasp and release
to a fervent beat, echo, mock
the now-stilled pound
of pulse and feet—

for moments more
your eyes still follow
my turn and return
measured pace
around your last bright
metal jewels
plastic beads of
water, air

I beat out steps
on the ward's hollow floor

you are dancing
to the sound