the ugly legs of the miniscule dancer

because it is not
a perfect day
and mountains have ridges
and rugged sharp jaws
because it is not
Elysian fields
outside of these windows
sweeping silent to pause-

because nothing weeps, nor smiles
nor furrows its brow, nor resists
the ledge of ennui, nor embraces
the song or the rascal, nor inhales
the wax from the candle
the ugly legs of the miniscule dancer
get closer and closer and stomp upon
the royal chin of the master until
he breathes no more.

left in this absence
this tireless empty space
besides the legs of the miniscule dancer
are the ashen tears of the fire gone cold
the tame expectation of the silent child
wild vacant stares from the dead old
earth unto valleys of universe
swift rivers of Lethe,
great fecunding grey skies,
marvelled treasures of the retired spirit
clinging to the moment, the diverging paths
the calendar at play

because it is not
a perfect day.