She dances between the dead machines
lines of bare forms uncovering dull metallic sleep
exposed like the skeletons of unfamiliar animals
beneath ancient webs drawn down in bone dresses – thin curtains of almost air
she pirouettes between them towards uncertain ending
breaking it without noticing in passing.
As all restless forgotten things come calling through her motion’s wicked wind
(such things you cannot arrest and chain down to a desk)
never can you take away such breath. Never will you have such breath.
She spins she spins she blurs reality.
The shapes her sweet movements make clouds judgement.
Her face is such fine poetry.
Plows through all lucidity.
Awakens the chambered beasts to a sea of violins,
a volley of canons,
bring out Beethoven to see the standing ovation!
Louder and louder the wine is plentiful more so than time (fuck time)
so beat the drums and shake the sheets and break the glass
to violently praise living (shudder shiver quiver darlings)
until the bored demons and demented angels and filthy little cherubs
inside of all you, damn you, are satisfied.
Look at her!
Your backs will stiffen until they break otherwise.
If you watch closely she will show you how to move through time.
Cathedrals will collapse and become forest that
will become cathedrals. Awaken awaken from
your clouded space and watch the life she makes by dancing.
The earth will quake and moon will crash into your face
and break all recognition of anywhere.
So, a trumpet for the morning
and a flower for Loria that she completely ignores.
Instead she bends down
and begins to softly hum
as she washes the world out of her hair.