Double

Can your dancing double,
reflected off the floor,
hear the symphony of rubble
that drips like an open sore?

Once in a great while
they think of something good.
Something to make the rank and file
chop and burn the wood.

Too many sore muscles,
not enough parties.
Far too many crude corpuscles,
not enough bodies.

I don’t think I know the answer.
Really I breathe out the wind.
Tell me, can your mirror dancer
hear the song of sin?