Sending wicked things
through air and over lush valleys.
Shapes form on the horizon
and it’s us: our bodies
twisting in a dance
like fish seizing on land.
Trouble fades, as we do
and light fills every space left.
Balance
A breath placed on a tray
the curse is light, fleeting;
why are there so many chairs?
It’s confusing.
There aren’t any eyes left
so it’s a struggle to stay upright.
A firm foothold in happiness
means a loss of balance
and possibly disillusionment.
It’s heartbreaking.
Just still
There was nothing small
in the space between their feet
their hands their shared breath
whey they talked,
when they walked,
they felt earth moving too slowly
too bumpy too colorful
for arriving at a space
meant just for them
just between where their feet should be
should fit should move
and it’s no small thing
to be still to be together to be still.
My counterpoint was a dancer from 1954
They shot everybody
with just the right light
to show the timeless appeal
of impossibly soft faces,
brows that leapt like jumpropes,
and bras that looked like bullets.
I liked the gloves.
I really liked the shadows.
I didn’t like the facade
of streets that hid their grit
or milkmen who looked like
they never touched a cow.
Who wants a sterile breakfast?
The best part was
when the slick scene was pierced
like a roasted sausage
and out spilled tap-dancing fools…
effervescent.
