when she was young
and in that san francisco mistake
she was known as the girl who would wear sunglasses

now east
and no longer shadow blinded
she learned rings belonged around saturn
then hurled those sunglasses
and pawned that finger-speared band
and unsnagged herself
from that reeling stationary tire
and opened greenwich village
with a circle of smiles

today she rises early from her new york bed
feet eagerly plop on carpet hairs
like a record dropping on a turntable
a sound like soft water falling

in the blue of mulberry afternoon
italian friends gather below her loft
    call out her name
then pose for photographs 
she’ll shoot from above
she’s a lilting laugh in the jewelry of sun

later when asked at the cafe
she’ll likely say yes to bed
and confess that her stomach
has dethroned her brain

under sheets
she’ll breathlessly curl away
letting her phonograph spin 
a succession of songs as
isadora’s scarf sheds itself
from the swirling grooves 
settling at the foot of her bed
a gentle snake wilting
a coiling memory for dawn
a spark for her morning dance