His daughter.

One way to say it,
Is dancing on strings,
And severing them each with your teeth.

It is a dance,
Over which one presiding,
Tosses her mane and stamps,
claws to the earth, claws to the earth,
There is no other,

but the excited skin,
Left empty and gratified,
Singing along with the songs that we dance to,
Foot up, claw down,
wings beat to the sound,
And the beat and the beat and the beat,

Of the city still sleeping,
But she wakes, o' she wakes,
And when the radio plays,
Knows just what she wants to hear;
by request or serendipity--
"I miss you, my dear."

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