Indigoe (beindigoe) wrote in poetry_orgy,
Indigoe
beindigoe
poetry_orgy

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Terpsichore

She waltzes with the concrete
banana peels, empty bottles, gravel.
It's Friday night and the hordes descend
again, she flamencos across rooftops
the zigs zags iron rungs of the
fire escapes, Merengue billowing before the morning's
industrial smoke.
She might be dawn in August
or the tar on the bottom of wingtip taps,
or the street
and she knows how to push it out
like heavy traffic in the burdening heat
a dose of alchemical taffeta methadone,
what you wanted to be.
sage and angry,
serene and purged,
spinning.
But it's too late now
and she won't be your mirror
for the last dance



~~~


i don't think it's done yet, but it's more productivity than i've had in... christ, ages. good enough to satiate me, anyway.
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