bent upon herself, nose to knee, palm to arch, a sigh graces her spine.
the dancer is snapped cleanly in half.
a familiar tension combs muscle, bone, vein.
it catalogs previous adjustments.
it finds root in flesh yet unaccustomed, and plies through each resistance.
she ripples in her stillness, extended in arm and leg.
each tendon a flame, bound for exhale.
there is soft light; it skims her cheek.
the oak floor seats odd little objects; two silver ribbons, hastily spilt, a tarnished phonograph, small and inexpensive, a pocket book of music, threadbare, cover crumbling.
these speak to her of evening.
she knows the rushed footsteps, escaping into night air, bustling in a desire for day's end.
and always will her desire speak of morning; warmth, in aching light, pull, in beauty unrealized. morning, flooded to bursting with brilliant vacancy.
morning, the breath wherein passion breaks forth day.
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