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This is what I’m watching tonight. I had to go to the muses, tonight, because it was a decidedly unpoetic day. I felt uninspiring in my classes, and then had errands to do after work with whiny, tired girlies, and I don’t really have anything left over.

The Elbow, The Shoulder, the Soul

First, of course, I consulted the bards and rimesters, the balladeers and metrists, even the classical guitarists, but the solution came, of course, dancing on in tonight, the night of the first quarter moon all burnt and smokebright. It was the firebird, come to visit. Somedays the words twine up, and this is when ballerinas come in handy.

The elbow, the shoulder, the soul, this is what the the poet choreographed and the poet danced, her toes a typewriter, her clavicles heeding the sky. Is this the Perseid early? How does a firebird reenter the glued atmosphere, and how do the flames fall back to earth, these are the boney questions she asks with those speaking limbs.

The one solution is the dance, and I know it, cartillage deep, knowing like gravity and surefootedness, that you know it too.

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An abstract dance poem. Hmm. Happy Monday!

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