Atrophy Poem by Julia Copus

Even human tissue's made of atoms,
bits of energy in cyclic motion:
our skin and cells and vital organs
are a lattice-work of small vibrations,
a web of sounds or notes which correspond
with all the other music that goes on.
So why, when we refuse to be drawn
or even to listen but choose instead to sit
alone, by ourselves, in the dark, at the edge
of the open floor, are we surprised
to find at length our purplish hearts
have stiffened and our limbs that once
gleamed with infinite possible gestures
- foxtrot, quickstep, pas de deux -
have set themselves into the narrow shape
of our chores, like late-night caretakers
who find themselves, after the music's gone,
walking behind their baffled brooms
stiffly, left, right, left, through emptied halls?