XVIII. Sonnets for Dancer

Hour upon hours will I wait for the day

that my minutes are due, my second delay

to reach new impediments more easily swayed

than the stone cast before me, the evening play

concentrating, medicating as is partly explained

by the better bits mustered and newly contained

within the historic, as I blow away

the bitter dust junctured momentarily

to ribbons, bows, lace, and tinsel

too bright to sink, to speak of stencils

upon which the sun is set, the moon beleaguered

bloody as nothing but a monthly pleasure

passing by, me, no-me-quitte groom

calling by, you, my lovely nom-de-plume.

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