In a house shaken by wheels On a street ironically named Utopia, In middle-class Flushing, Queens, He created a shoebox theater In which a lovely ballerina Named Tamara Toumanova Could dance for him forever The ballet of endless transience, The beauty of every minute, Which shapes up and then blows away. She was already dead, to be sure, But he had saved a hairpin she had owned (...)
Poetry
Joseph Cornell
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