Learning How to Dance - Adam Aitken
A mint-scented handkerchief
dabs away my tears – dust and fumes
in my eyes, not sadness
nor nostalgia
the traffic’s stalled
and there is respite in
this vehicle’s endless weaving
I think how pleasant it would be
to be a cheeky temple girl
or a tourist guide
modelling a floating market
a metropolis of boats
gliding past in trance
or I could be
a classic dancer
of the old school –
90 degree angled fingers
trained
by a torture
only the most beautiful
hands endure
and the body
its wings
bent to the desired shape –
the mind follows.
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