Nora Almeida

   Ballet and Ocean

  When I tried to get right in
there was only more getting into to do.
Not love. Not the envelope of embrace.
Like cream I was pushed around with a spoon
and like a coffee bean I rattled and sank
although I tried to imagine I was floating.
Flying. A ballerina is a coat on the hillside
blowing into trees. The distance
is what the ocean is all about,
a gap we tried to measure.
With something innocuous, you just
add more of it. It tastes terrible.
It is Bolshoi, a starfish or gun barrel.
Electricity and where it dives under trees.
With a million moving limbs we can traipse,
turn vermillion. Swim in or stir the refracted light
we can’t find the source of. A synapse
firing. Sleepless. Spinning off into [.]

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