The Best Dancers . . .


fallen dancer

In dance, as in life . . .

The Best Dancers

God keeps me here like this:

to stumble a little.

If I was to



turn into light,

blinding myself even

to the most precious

and necessary illusions,

then what hand could hold my own?

Where would rest a weary head?

What good use for warm hearts;

for hot tears?

Why eyes to see, why arms

to open?

Which Lovefamily to fall into?

The best dancers know

what grace

every stumble


em claire

(for more poetry from em claire, see


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