But I am frozen on a page robbed of expression. Set to music I could pirouette, prance, and preen. There'd be no thought of harlot - only dancing queen. Held in time with a camera's ease. Dancing I see expressions of envy, and understanding, Written on faces - lines on a skinny page.
Poets achieve less with all their rhyme and rage.
So when you see these dots of black and white. Remember me, who in passion moves to move you. And to that nonpaper image, I ask, be true. I was running along a track when I saw Witch Hazel . She was wearing a navy blue jogging suit with a hood.