This is the fifth hour and the studio is veiled
In a film of sweaty stench as
Dancing goes on alone.
The pencil point turns are becoming blunt,
The shoulders droop like eyes after lullabies,
And there is wrongness in the body.
Stopping at the sound of
A whispering door,
Staring at the other arrivals in active assessment,
A dark chocolate bittersweet taste creeps into
The mouth as the understudy watches
A ballerina lose her balance.
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