I am Martha
Graham dancing
on a California tree
branch in a devil wind
like a dirty poet
who used to be
made of paper,
died, then returned
to life filled
with blood.

I am not one to od on x
anymore. Before I thought
I was dying only twice.
That one time doesn’t count.
It just doesn’t.

If I can be Martha again,
I will never forget
how to move without
outside influence
upon the sprung wood again.