Tree, Two Ways

I don’t hear music.
The sounds drift by me, clattering like dishes
coming out of the machine.

I hear everything,
the drummer’s heartbeat,
the breath in on the upbeat.

I don’t read poetry.
The words don’t rhyme
and I don’t have time.

All words are syncopated and
laden beyond their meanings
with more, always more.

I can’t dance.
My body betrayed me at a young age
and I haven’t forgiven it.

I am dancing now
and I can’t stop and
the sun is coming up.

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