She fell in the street, strangers dodged traffic to reach the spot where she crumpled, a tree torn kite, a grounded star from Trieste
Sore-beshitted she was when the old Met was torn down, standing ghost-like by the rubble in her Madame Butterfly kimono as if anticipating her
Long ago, this colony met in secret congress with itself to fix the hour of its future dissolution, a date stamp invisible to that