It’s spring again in the ballerina’s room.
The fixed stare of a flower behind the ear
And a pirouette into a red sunset.
Blue only brought the sky down.
First position: I admire an ankle.
Second: You hug your legs.
She’s undone at the cotillion,
A swan for no one.
A little pretty music for the mouth,
Very quiet amid very white.
Composure is not a mirror.
She points a slipper into the lake.
