how unfortunate is the wisp girl’s addiction to endorphins,
a hair beneath five feet, rolling dark muscles on bone non-existent
but still run she must, curtained hair crawling out of ponytail
skeletal bones cushioned by a veil of flesh unhinge and hinge,
they are ancient doors opening and closing,
iron turned to rust.

eyebrows shoot up to creased dinosaur-skin foreheads,
mouths open to perfect rabbit holes, O, little girl, ballerina child
heartbreaking scene, wisp girl panting after men and women
those with bunched flesh, indifferent faces—
might as well be dozing with whirlwind legs chasing dreams.

wisp girl, poor wisp girl, she will always be ballerina child.