By | 1 December 2013

Recall the dance you were just now in the middle of
before turning away. At least remember how each
thing took its place in the air – the skirt

of swinging knives, plungepools of necks,
how the lengths of music, unraveled from the piano,
require one to lean in and listen close, require one

to stamp out measures of it, catch it squirming
underfoot. Soon between the two of you
there’s just the dance, like a striking

window you forget to look through.
And the music, made by movement, taken apart
in the ear and re-pieced, knuckled and trampled,

loses the sounds of itself in repetition
of itself, in segment and multiple. Soon between
the one and one of you there is always

the dance, a gowned force above the squamous floor.
And the music, which possesses no movement,
which is your movement through time remembering

the differences between moments – beat and
off-beat – becomes a nothing in the ballroom
of this and this other somebody’s head. At least

recall that what you have just seen is not
what you see, heard not hear,
there on the island of acoustic and awkward pose,

where the scaled sea has frozen but too thin
to cross, where the dance is a door forever,
is a wall to hold you here forever. Now turn.

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