Rootless
from frozen solitude
echoes stir
a downed
enfant terrible
as a ballerina
with a vast leap
in less
than lyrical poise
circles round
an unmade day bed
admiting us
to the nursery room
with the sofa rug
of twin swans
drenched
by the newly watered
Iris vase
multiplying confusion
along the fish tank
a breath away
in a possible whirling
dance macabre
of a future Salome.
editors note:
No time for mad-scrambled policing to restore the upset and broken, when you’re creating new decorations with your dance. Innocent abandon is hard to come by… – mh