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Among bystanders who take up space
like bags of sand, an impatient
slender girl, feet in first position,
cranes to see if her ride has come.
The street is full of overcoats
out to shop or home from work.
No pastel corps de ballet
waits, arm-linked, around the corner.
The scene might run a thousand times
and nothing quicken into dance.
But should Tchaikovsky quiver
behind the concrete planters,
she alone is poised to start,
out of this everyday stumble
around things, a sudden pirouette
unfolding cursively into art.
by Christopher Bullard
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