Blue paint and lost limbs,
wine sprayed with the movement,
all over closed eyes.
Dark paint, smudged life.
Burlesque with a lasso and
health, to good health:
come die little moment,
‘fore dancing’s rebirth.

“Yves Klein, we love you!”
So sprinkle gold dust
with your worldly sky
figures on walls,
their moments of leaping, and
Nietzsche’s lost love,
has bound breathlessly with
us too.

In thrall with your death—
white lights, black eyes, green wine,
strung words, and hold:
keep dancing, keep falling
“Pretend it’s a dance.”
Keep falling, keep catching,
distortion, relax.

My birthday, you caught me,
then threw me around
all the bad things I’d heard
were untrue.
Happy birthday, not deathday—
keep dancing, sweet girl,
keep losing your limbs and
your head to it all.