XI. Sonnets for Dancer

For each tooth you forgo under a laughy pillow,

for every instance of blood familially thrown

at that crack, the gush, your yielding toe

nailed like onychomycosis on dedication grown

just like your eyes, slick nose, and thick whispering throat

all open for holidays ‘spite common Winter throes

on a via dolorosa impalpably, surprisingly rote

just as Time is bereft of sentiments yet dressed in bows

that unwrap themselves as life’s shows’ approach

is relentlessly gravid with ubiquitous sinking lust

of blushing leaves, ptosis, tomber amoureux

like the meanderings of flesh in its entropic rush

for hours between your torque, legs, vertebrae

that shoulder your shell of finity, casted perfectly.