Poem on the Floor

All depends on if it’s fallen,
If it’s broken, if it’s dancing.

The poem on the dance floor has fun,
Sweating rivers, hoarse from shouting.

The poem alone, meditating
Or exercising, still feels fine.

The poem that’s dust, crumbs, forgotten—
That’s tough. That’s almost inhuman.

The poem that’s broken is screaming,
A machine that thought it could breathe.