Some men, who collaborated self-consciously
with killers behind a one-way mirror darkly,
catching their breaths on every errant wind,

They grin at solemn heads with laurel wreaths
calcified to mottled rock, lopsided, bent—
and wish to fold themselves like thin gold leaf

On a wooden platform in the center of the room
The young dancer stood, her naked feet in position:
The man would rather gaze at her white feet forever
Than ever hold them in his hands, paying her well