Extending from sleeves of pure gold

the Emperor’s hands uncurl their fingers

across the piano’s darkly chequered

counters. The earth is suddenly

spinning in fast motion.  And the beautiful black

androgynous hair sweeps down his back,

defying age.

How long can he stay there, breathing in

that long glide between despair

and the up-beat’s re-entry,

where grace annuls nothing, that drift

where the script of his life is vanishing —

till his hands will once more be

all energy, no longer blunt fists but

the most instinctive, quietest

acts of giving? 
The audience of just himself

holds its breath while the mind’s invisible oboes

carry his questions, these groping finger-strikes

against despair, into the pure

futureless air.