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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