The Dancer

Tuschen

on her stage, at
her own wish, and
in her own dream,
she stripped
with a helpless smile
to a lonely trumpet
and a lonelier crowd.

the dancer
with
the blue whip
lick--
naked in her promise,
alone in her desire,
moved
in a desperate
ballet
that was understood
by no
body--
and still
we sat with grins
to our knees.

i cried
for her, for her bruises
and its cost--
for her prisons
(and mine)
for her smile
(an unstrippable smile)
and for the endless nights
blue and
bluer
that she shares with
no
body but herself

and me.

 

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