Disco
is nothing more than a slip,
a fertile lip
like a rhododendron bud in spring.
I am a pawn.
If I see you in the half-dark
half sputtered tea-cup,
spinning into infinity,
will I lift you up?
Will you need lifting?
Or a tip, perhaps?
I possess all these faces-
one is a splinter, the other wood.
I know I should dance, but
what the heck, we are on separate sides
of the hall. I know
all is well in the corner where
the secret to all this hubbub
is dangling from a girl's ear.
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