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at the counting dance

seven slim shadows     in love with

fibred twilight

guarded by trivialities

in sanctioned rooms     seated in limbo chairs

a process of geometry recombined

our gowns shout down the wind

cut us in two     the pieces

put together backwards

we’re secretly numb     vital organs astray

and piled in broken teacups

our hands filled with

+

signs

when the hands are used up

elbows

Published by Joel Best