poem: tragedy to introduction and rondo capriccioso

fall is saint-saëns, it is slipping off
silk dresses and leather gloves,
hands cut on the dashboard
and hair mussed,
leaving her body like curtains
hung over the seat—
his tongue spiced,
her cigarette sparking, sex
cut and served cold;
the air is brimming
the music rimming up—
i counted your sallow face in the crowd
the day i left,
over the top,
for glory and saint george and
all that old bullshit—
we could instead plunge off
the wheels rolling into soft air
your hair ripping, ripe,
torn into uniforms and bandages,
girls waiting at windows in the red
and the gold, sitting naked
and not hoping.