Massaging an Acid Burn

bolshui_ballet_nopc_2_72dpi-1

A fleck of light frothed from the parking lot
And hung on my bedroom wall. I sprawled a bedsheet
On the window, fastened it with thumbtacks
To prevent the fleck from dancing
On my bedroom wall. It’s common knowledge
That fiends dance, but I dance
Like a fleck of light
To appease the fiends. I utilized the bed sheet’s dimensions,
Positioned it precisely to censor the fleck
But a thumbtack fell and exposed a corner. Steam from the sewage plant
Coiled inside the obtuse frame. Years ago
Acid was heaved onto the artistic director of the Bolshoi Ballet
By some dancers, they claimed it was for the people. He said the world
Appears like wax paper to him now,
Perhaps it rotates like a pointe shoe
To expose the dimensions
Of an obtuse frame. Perhaps a bedsheet toppled, intentionally,
To expose pollution created by a sewage plant,
Or, perhaps, I should cease staring out of regular frames
Expecting my perspective to be as perfect
As wax paper.

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