As timeless as the statue David,
About as pale and perfect.
Warm like David's hand in the ocher rage
Of the Italian sun,
Warm from my baby feet dancing.

Cosmic swirls
Of fog gray and ivory,
Heated by the stars,
And warmed by my baby feet dancing.

A wooden spiral
Drapes itself over the stairs.
A ballet bar, hot from my hand,
Like the floor,
Which is warm from my baby feet dancing.

Mother imagined me married here;
His suit soot against the white,
A snow covered floor,
A cold marble floor.
But that floor is mine,
And it's warm from my baby feet dancing.

Grandfather Clock towers over me in the curve of the staircase:
Dwarfing the sinking city,
Scraping the sky,
Where the Italian sun
Warms David's hand,
Which I pretend to hold,
While I warm the floor with my baby feet dancing.

A thousand years from now
That floor will still be warm
Warm with the sound of my baby voice
Warm from the touch of my baby feet dancing.