Fred Astaire

Nigh weightless,an alien born on a planet
With scarcely any gravity,
This odd-looking angel,ridiculous and divine,
Levitates without the aid of mirrors.
High delight of mastery!-
The hours of studying and imitating
Oneself,no,the ideal self
Latent down there,under the eyelids,
Safe from all ugliness,confusion and hurt.
A dancer,
As a racehorse is a racehorse,
And nothing more.
The suit fits,
With absolute elegance,
The shoes are winged
And polished like a witch’s obsidian glass.
At night he lies awake,unable to sleep,
As the images jitter before him,
The heavenly choreography
That may,perhaps,with infinite practice,
Be realized on earth
Before death,like an English gentleman,
In black tie and tails,
Enters and extends his visiting card
With whitegloved hand.
Meticulous cloud-jockey,
Riding high in the saddle of a dream,
Every sinew and tendon tensed
To fine purpose,he renders
Endless pains sleek and kempt.
Life has such preposterous plots!-
Only the enchantment, the aplomb
Of an innocent heart
Can sidestep the vulgar
With an elfish chuckle.
Poised on the precipice
Of his own precise ease,
Little Hermes concentrates all wisdom
In a glittering trifle,
A victory,
A gift.