So rarely will she dance.
Still she screams that she dances
...over...
and over again
...she screams
she yelps at the injustice,
she hollers at the in humaity


so often does she explain that which I don't know.
so often she illumintates the obvious
and the light shining from behind her
only illumintaes my misundeteratdingng

so ironic, that she so often misunderstands
what, she is want to know
what, so lucky am I to know
which is not my job


that she misundertands at all is the child
in the bough
in the break
in the beauty of beauty

that prefection is comprehends is imprefections
that the words are so forced fromt he book s that explain truth
and still
even my majesti c lady cannot interpret truth from untruth

that imprefection comprises her at all
that she knows
in the beckoning evening
and the discomfort of uncertainty
she stands for herself

as she stands for me, and for us all.
that the perfections presumed to the everyman are the fallacies of beauty
the fallacies of heaven
the mistakes of people

she breathes softly in the morning
and her breast heaves beneath the weight of pressure
my hand touches her cheek
my sould reaches for her spirit
still it disipates in the fog of evening
disappearing into a mist of perfection in the midst of imperfection
my miracle that still she rested next to me
in the heaving mistakes of the midnight slumber
such dreams of my mine lost in the dreams
that she dreams
that I might witness perfections of imperfection.