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Danse Macabre
A stunted Orpheus scratches
The tortoise-belly of the moon.
Across plaids and frills of surf
A genie howls through cracks in an earthen jar,
‘I die, I die, for love I die!’
Crisp finger snapping from the stars
And heels hammer on the forge.
‘Oh Love, I die for your disdain!’
The note becomes inaudible
And the dancer’s fan
Flies like a stunned bat around her face.