18
THE
DANCERS
Eurydice
is
gone
the
jest
of
capricious
death.
But
here
are
the
Thracian
women
stomping
their
heels
at
Nietzsche's.
The
pride
of
them
all,
hot-‐glaring
&
over-‐serious,
spins
violently
till
her
hair
pinned
up
in
the
back
tumbles
down,
clipped
by
the
one
who
spun
her
&
each
boy
wants
a
turn.
Fiddle
music
pours
like
water
over
rock
repeating
half
promises
intimately
in
each
ear.
Eurydice
is
dead
&
will
not
hear.
By
Peter
Grieco