Ars Balletica.

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.