a void carved into the sphere
ceaselessly spinning

the green exterior
(green and brown and pavement)
is red within.
she bleeds
when the void is carved,
when the vein is punctured.
her blood is needed somewhere else—
needed or wanted
a fine line—
but moved regardless
(not destroyed, no matter how forceful,
for she can create no more within
except for without)—

positives and negatives
always add up
to that single turning zero
on which I stand;
and the positive in my hand
cannot be in yours
for the rules always apply
(or at least until proven guilty)—

the potter’s hands
covered red
mold her
form her anew;
a ballerina
once within the earth,
thrown into a second dance
a tighter pirouette
now spinning, spinning
on a ridged metal floor.


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