Harlequin watches the rippling moon
drifting east downstream to paint the ocean,
breathes a Pierrot sigh, thinks that too soon
this face that mirrors face will fade again.
Harlequin whistles, strikes a cheerful pose,
smooths gaudy feather, adjusts jaunty hat,
twists a moonstruck dancing step as he goes
artlessly strolling callous as a cat.
Harlequin smoothes the over-studied note,
by streetlight wrapped in night pursues his task.
motley shoulders bent beneath lost love’s coat
preparing new scenes to change an old masque.
Again the oldest tale spins out its rhyme,
Can Harlequin regain his Columbine?