The Ballerina

It has been raining now for a few three days, she says.
But these questions flicker
         —as stage lights—
                   within my uncertain observation.
Further yet, I must admit that I don’t give a damn about the weather.

You proceed without rhythm,
the concept recedes into predication: solitude in a word.
Life must be lived in a forward manner but viewed
         in a backwards one

[there is, still,
                             no manner.]

I have not slept in three hours.
I convince myself that
this is what death feels like:
cold and shadowed, anxious; a single decision to be made
         that can rationalize, not only a being,
but every other being that has been touched through
their lusterless eyes.
I slip out of bed. The carpet is porous. It resembles raw emotion. It convinces me of love.
Down the stairwell,
turning corners,
one last door,
a handle,
warm.
I descry comfort as reality deflects.

I am three years old.
My mother’s leg harbors my terror—connections
and catastrophes.
         He’s rather shy, isn’t he?
My mother is the text. Mary is the text. She is the text.
She is the memory and the coming tears.
Her leg is warm like a bruise.

Than is then then.

Ballerina girl, will you dance for me in heaven,
         if I love you so now?          I’ll even sing.
If I am still so scared, can I hide behind your leg and conceal
         your bruises?
One gentle heart can pour out love to a thousand wounds and
one clot—one pause—can strip the world of love itself,
         but it brings
a little, grac[t]eful
instance of understanding.

In the same way, my hate and shame (is) piling upon itself, clotting thought. This misunderstanding will not withdraw or condense into (an(y)) alternate perspective. I am clever enough to know of this avoidance and separation. (Concept): You will not impetrate forgiveness. Though I myself may suffer, and suffer more (li(near)) from stage-fright, I close my eyes, and the darkness I once fled from will be filled with the image of her. She will
                   spin—
         life’s                    verdure
will                    incise                    spin—
                   a                              flush solace
spins—                              into          a
                   new language.                    Now,
                             delectate,          she          spins—
in my                    mind.

I will love: the poison forced into your body will never enter into mine;
         we all have our reasons: I will love.

(I have been told that revision,
         –intellectual, contextual: focal both,
 perpetuates life, my whole life.
Irony desists, shy as it may,
         shyer if it remains, glissading under the surface.

No, I will not revise.
Some things have not the capacity for alteration,
have not the capacity for death, or even shame,
so they remain; remain, grace, true all the same.)