Some nights on the dock,
When only scales
And a few popeyed fish-heads
Are left out for the moon
(Which the spread nets entangle),
There comes the sound
Of bare feet dancing,
Which is Mr. Kehoe,
Lindying solo,
Whirling, dipping,
In his long skirt
That swells and billows,
Turquoise and pink,
Mr. Kehoe in sequins,
Face turned upward,
Eyes half-shut, dreaming.


Sleep well, Mr. Kehoe.




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This article originally appeared in The New Criterion, Volume 22 Number 6, on page 41
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