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Click hereMy shadow
wears slinkier clothes.
She
leads me upstairs
backwards.
My shadow
kisses men’s feet until
they beg
to be drowned in her performances.
My shadow
wears pink because
she can.
My shadow
depends on me
to flirt.
My shadow
fox-trots in radiant cornflowers;
as movement’s poetry:
feather-cheeked,
asphalt-bare,
rendering in my reactions’ ratios
mime song.