The dance begins at half past two.
They break us, bend us, lash us to
Their silhouettes and pirouettes,
Across the maps of fiefdoms formed.
On barricades and barbed-wire proms
They build themselves a wall of trees,
And there they prance their mountain dance
To rules set out by forest kings.
We cower beneath their dancing shoes,
Their ballroom, breath room, cold war gloom.
They chat, and rat-a-tat, and crack
Our tarantella minds with tap.
At three they leave us to our tears,
To empty moves in darkened rooms.
stream of words poem written in response to: