Pointed
aloft on bone decaying
how deep do heels at times dig in.
Youth with one eye always toward the mirror
measuring life in postures
measuring life in seven and then eight
my chest caves in around an aging ballerina.

Once she danced to please her fathers,
then she swayed for the applause,
now she moves for the heavenly imperative
and the transcendental escape.

What good is a body when no longer used?
What life is there beyond the fire?

One eye always toward the mirror
measuring time in sundowns
bouncing babies and birthdays
pointed
aloft on bone decaying.