Even if she wished,
could she anymore,
if she wished it,
would she dance out 

the strange spirit
to carry her from this secure road
to a slather of muck?
To dance out 

is to care less,
to give away dreams
you have coveted within
your all-alone nest, 

is to offer them stupidly,
to know they will congeal ugly
when music stops. It almost
always does. To dance out 

even one more time
is to admit your dreams 

are only that. To dance out
is you 

who will never believe,
never live off that sickly-sweet air,
never ask the clock to stick its hands
into thin-air brew.