[L’Ecole  Supérieure de Danse de Cannes Rosella Hightower
performing “Petite Symphonie,” Part 1]
 

X is of twelve minds
or at least something
evenly divisible.

X, whose motive
is guttural.

X’s basement is full
of crickets, each tuned
to a different temperature.

X likes its fur
pet in one direction.

X is dedicated
to seeing it through
like a crane lancing
its own reflected feet.
Prismatic.  Un-
sparing.

X says, “Pull to the side
of the road.”  X is feeling
sick, not wanting to think
about death just yet.

Oh, X, death is not a place
to visit.  We are already here.
You can go on putting on makeup.
Trimming your toenails.
Scratching your wrists.
Wearing your loudest shirt.
Nothing will surprise it.

X seems to still
be figuring out
opposable thumbs.

X lets it go
to voicemail.

X turns the tables
and addresses death directly.
“Be a dear and hold the candle
above my right shoulder?”

X assuages
nothing by leaning
against the rain.

X notices that word again.
There is no dimness
sparing enough.