XVI. Sonnets for Dancer

To count all these inches as they come tumbling down

from miles above to the new spoken ground

which I cannot set right, with which I will not be sown

into the Earth without your relevé toes

roundingly seeking that least common mean,

your preponderance for peace, the milder extreme

unfettered with ribbons, looped into the team

of blood spilt readily, tears flooding, kept lean

before the water goes out, preceding a salubrious deluge

into the plainer facets of our world construed

to lie like bulbs in that pre-primaveral ruse

where our Earth dissembles barren, bursting as its tuned

to pace with your heart’s florid seventy-two,

unaccountable to me as is all hearts’ due.

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