I can sing a little,
my throat clasps a golden beetle
that tickles and chokes
and is soft in the wing
I can dance a little,
my hips make proclamations
that sound sometimes
like grand gestures,
and sometimes whispers.
My teeth chatter when I speak
and the half truth is
my eyes are full of sand
and I can see everything.
The full truth is
I spend every day sleeping,
and my head is full of dreams
that quake upon waking.
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