Like any ensemble, we wanted to arrange
Ourselves in novel and compelling positions,
The better to prove our creativity, but then
We found ourselves bickering, questioning,
How creative could arranged dancers be?
Who, how many were our choreographers?
When the winds changed westerly, we blew
Into the alcove balcony of the lonesome poet
Who took delight in all of our words on his skin,
Who refused to wipe his face when he went in.
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