XIII. Sonnets for Dancer

If wine makes us dizzy and head turns elapse

as time takes us, busy and dead-tired, contracts

our fate, our sun, our burning secret black mass

in solace soon sent, radiating stars of the cast

euplastic, at last, leçon on healing limb

dipped in fondu, joined in plié, tossed battement

développé out to meet as white hot commands

into melted muscles weaving, worked into song

in which effulgent dawn rings as a messiah

uncrowned, glorious as your annual session

of entering, unlocking, round as we might’ve

chaînés tournes orbits of rapid succession

as the planets decry their celestial observance,

 I am content in mezzanine as a ritual reporter.

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