Degas: Lost Oeuvre

He cannot see the lift and fall of their limbs, 

the slow adagio turning their wrists, 

cupping shadow, then light.

The inverted palms,

and elbows following, 

one by one,

like white lilies

tilting in the wind.

Losing sight is a slow process.

First the colors dim, 

then the lines that hold the colors in. 

And then all things dissolve 

into a sameness 

that is neither day nor night--

no edge to this shrinking circle,

this inexorable fading light.

The notes still come

one upon the other,

canvases of sound erupting

on the edge of his vision

sketches of pink, russet, a band of mustard-yellow--

their exhausted beauty 

molding now in the damp spring rain,

curling frightfully,

like an old man in a beaten coat

leaning on his cane.

In dreams he can see again.

Three notes stagger out of the darkness;

shoes tracing arcs in dry chalk. 

A shuttered cross-hatch of tulle netting.

And legs, firm stalks 

to hold them,

ribboned round and round, 

as they turn to him, and turn to him, and turn

offering their throats,

their lovely white arms, 

circling,

as they lift at his hand, 

once more, 

into the light.