In the Art Bazaar   I came to weigh their promises. A dancer whirled by, whispered something about youth eternal, but I’d long since missed my chance.   Musicians traded disembodied sound and pulse. A troupe of actors hawked romance, while painters peddled beauty by the pound.   I tried to hurry past a snaggletooth crone, cursing, cackling, who held me spellbound: “Poetry makes room for the cruelty of truth.”     © Michael Fleming Brattleboro, Vermont January 2018