Shadows flower through iron lace,
a shadow leaf falls from a balcony
and vanishes in my hand.
Darkness has one wing and light another.

In Louisiana, the wind dies where it falls,
like death’s unanswered questions—
day in, day out,
that same old voodoo follows us about.
But at the exact moment
of that assignation in Dallas,

the bells of St. Louis were ringing,
a tomato vender counted his millions,
and a prostitute on Bourbon Street
felt a light rain absolving her.

And that is why they call life a mystery,
and truth a conspiracy.