Doesn’t it terrify you when people know what you’re thinking?
After all, dancing was never your strong suit.
Instead of the butterfly, you’d be the mosquito,
the fly on the wall waiting
to scoop up the words that others idly toss
and stow them away in a case of marble.
And you know that someday these words will drop as pearls from oysters
and sting you like onion’s spit
and your whole head will shatter open for everyone to see,
but the time has not yet come to talk of such things
and all the ships and sealing-wax in the world
could not hold you still.
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