Limbo a kind of dance, barely mentioning motion:
a dove, a dish thrown at the wall, a cavalier smileb
a pout that can’t be partitioned, your vague comment

             merely: Don’t throw the calabash melon out.
Calabash, code for don’t throw, don’t abash, don’t cast about

             for what you can’t say.  Don’t dance the subject.
If by chance I found your meaning in a cryptic note,

             you can’t say I’d advanced
my heart about the garden where I sit limbed –

             bowed as the mourning dove in his spottery coat
spotting me here in the garden rows with crow,

              (garden plot as context).
Please sit on the fence with me, doubt what we say,

              (epoch disease: the quibble) help me 
save this cumbersome calabash planted between

             pirouetting delphinium, whining forget-me-nots. 
Let all secrets remain in their pockets; I once tried to

             say something certain; it died on the vine
though the rest of the garden

             kept dancing.