Sonnets for Dancer XXXII

Daring to speak, wanting to sneak

in two words, yet without relief

they come like fire into the night:

not Fat. Not going. No, not right

to say such a simple thing

when the lines are curved and the poisson ringed,

the nets cast and the curtains stringed,

the “fat” so named is a relative shame.

You’d ask me only for the truth I cry,

the man so singled to deck a lie,

the past that’s written to be written again,

there’s nothing there but advantage gained.

For that moment, the fuel of rage

lies your seed, its life uncaged.

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