Her little hips
have sprung a tutu
now she's bouncing
on the grey sands
of Corsica
and the last of the day's fiery lights
are ablaze in her curls
good evening
it's a pantomime in Corsica
she's the fairy of the shore
conducting waves and broken shells
(the weeks are nameless
the hours flagged by hunger )
in her dreams she'll do the same
and when her sand speckled lashes flutter
she'll emerge to do it all again
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