Dancing on the ropes
street floor, we couldn't look at each
others faces. 'The sacred isolation'
we might have called it, in a fit of unfit
ness of words. Without finesse
of scholarships, without a solid deck
we danced, bouncing heat
from the walls, sailing over
the linoleum, wrinkling, thumping
our chests, thighs, foreheads, bending
our joints to their very edges,
cartilages, vast abysses of thought.
Every moment, in black ink,
could be picked like text from
the smooth page. Every weird
curve and sharp V shape
interpreted harshly. Analysis
hisses like steam. Sweat seamed arm
pits. Beaded lips. Spinning, spinning
we didn't want to touch
such things with our minds.
Better to let the skin make
and unmake it. Pushing the mind past
the sound of pistol shot drums,
thumping plum seeds, plump stomachs,
shuffling amateurs feeling rich, rich,
rich in love.
The reading mind confined to itself
in the poesy of motion, the sugar
in morning coffee, in blood through limbs
in pajama skin. Yes, breakfast
took its toll and we all sank down winded,
smiling, the shifting gawky swiftness past
and the sun coming in through the plants
on the windowsill. With shining eyes
we let our chests rise and,
tidelike, fall. Seaside town, third storey,
visiting you all and leaving
criticism to the ones who won't dance.
This is not what we were trained
for: to put aside the inner thing hiding,
and let all our eyes closed loco
ocean ride out under our feet.
- ► 2011 (28)