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asked to dance     

in the tomb of my dream I live alone
subsisting on hunger and fortune cookies,
just now dimly aware of the procession
that will one day wind its way to me
     bearing plumes –

and I do not care to be remembered
with distinction, or asked to dance –
so long as the words skip onto the paper
contrariwise, and with a little sway of truth
     in their hips

© 1990 by Beth Stevens