I never could high-kick
words were my tap-shoes
but I know these dancers:

ecstatic routine masking terrors
of keeping on spot in the line,
self on the line; raw yearning,
stripped, on the line

those who hurt most
departing stage left
in the husk of a grueling day

the one on the floor
silently screaming
felled by a faithless knee

Where do they go
what cold meal in a cold flat
their destination

the price of dreaming

the awful question

When I can’t dance
hanging like gallows from the flies.