The moon has melted,
dripping silver off black
branches.
The dancers have come, again,
to drown in shadows and
transform themselves to artists.
They pull their blue skin tight
over their corpses like stretched
canvases;
thin skins that look
like opaque balloons.
I am not one of these dancers.
My skin is not on the loom.
I am not blue, I am silver.
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