ARS BALLETICA
It sits in the slow burn
of its own feathers. It dreams easy. And leaps. And fails
to mention to the rest of us what could happen
if it keeps happening--keeps leaving itself
in sunspots the way people do their shoes
along the stairs. It mixes red wine
with rum and soon regrets it. It regrets
nothing. Its one wish is to bear
a more exact resemblance
to itself, well lit and from the proper distance,
transforming on command like a fist
when you open your hand. It hides
its teeth, which have not been tried and found
wanting, but found difficult and left
untried. It flies
because it takes itself lightly. It's dragged
like the bones of our bodies over every awful
kind of love. And it's proud to be alive like that, dying
from another. It wakes the dead
vegetables in our crisper, cucumbers regreening
all at once. It scrubs the dishes before it breaks
them, which makes no sense. It
makes no sense. It is the dissatisfying sparkle
of pond-life, and the pond-life, also. It's the smell
of a barn on fire, but doesn't like it
if you say so. It's the vacant space where already
and ever are never
not looking at each other. It's placed places
for a reason. It wants to want
for nothing, which it does, but also wants
a purpose, which it has already, which is to hold itself
together. Beauty is what the soul has made
suffice. No one has ever seen God.