Today marks me going back to prose poetry. I thought it fit.
[Did you know that Frederic Chopin taught me how to dance?]
Did you know that Frederic Chopin taught me how to dance? His fingers tapped piano notes on my back, a rhythm that guided us through fog so thick it may as well have been solid. Clams, he said. We are like clams. He held a pearl in his hand and tucked it into my hair, but it merely disintegrated into sand as he hacked up blood that sparkled like garnets.
Its a weird poem. A friend wanted me to write about Chopin, so here it is. Clams and Chopin go hand and hand.