Apprentice to the dance.
Does this splay footed girl wish to dance, crane hop,
gog-prance? Then her mild expression hides a summer
hot passion.
She is Mrs. Gossport's child.
They are making efforts to correct her stance.
They believe there will emerge from those thin shoulder blades
controls like those of a wire pulled puppet.
Imagine some dirge like background
melody surges to crescendo, fades.
And where your eyes converge at white spotlight and fantasy,
that skinny dancer waves.
Spectacled half chick in a skimpy coat,
hopping by rain filled moat, the flooded gutter, with heat
turned inward.
Who can hurl her past Mrs. Gossport's grasp
and her own tongue's stutter?
Here we see her coaxing twigs to float.
What body twisting giant can take each limb of hers
and suffer it to say, I am love's tool?
Her pale, defiant eyes reflect the whim
of muddy stream along the guttered walk to school.