the ballerina seeps a liquor
brewed from Not Enough.
her feet beat out a Bliss Burnt Blue
fermented from old love.
a carnal itching for the stars
bangs out its bloody beat:
Inebriate of lust, a cold sea
sloshes in her feet.
the ripple, slough of mirrors
muscles rust to aching clean;
trouble crusts and sugars over into
folds of bitter cream.
love bangs and slides and clops away
like marbles on the stair:
the blank stands breached, like lightening's
grabbed her trouble by the hair.
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