THE DANCERS
My first
experience of Renoir’s
fluffy, fried egg
floozies
and straw-hatted
likely lads
was Bal du
Moulin de la Galette
on an old tin TV
tray.
Faces through
gauzy colours
in distance mere
scales, petals
in a muted pastel
palette,
camouflaged
dapple, the scars
scratched into the
tray’s finish.
Gavottes like Van
Gogh’s stars
swirling, till the
dancers, woozy
trees and gas
lights teach the ars
longus a cheap tray
chooses.
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