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the empty ballerina

waltzes because she is

moved by the music of offenbach.  he

catches her when she falls, but it

is because her favourite punkster

is inciting riots at the end

of the world, where dragons

have come out of the sky and timbre is

the only defiance known to

be evocative and impenatrable.  She touches

where the water becomes a lack of

matter, puddles, oscillations trickling

to fringes of what science can muster.  Her toes

spray into the void, her eyes looking into

dragon’s motherhood, her

womanhood opening for a known

voice, someone vibrating, someone dark.  A heat

unknowable.

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