The Dance

 

In a night sky
lit with Dixie Cup
stars that pour haiku
on the earth
under my feet,
I see our candles
burn bright,
lights to each
other.

You’ve twirled
me before
under twinkling
disposable paper
that spills
counted syllables
from which
fly Monarchs
toward an
invisible sun —
ten thousand
times ten
thousand times
I’ve spun
in your arms.

This time
we ride
a motorcycle
without helmets,
as I hold on tight,
and complain
about split ends,
and in the club
we visit
the band plays
swing jazz,
our fingers
entwined during
the spin; only
the place
and time
and syllables
differ.

I smile
at you
(and you
smile back);
my eyes
pour into
your eyes
(your eyes
pour into
mine); my
lips press
into your
heart (your
heart presses
into my
lips); my
words fold
into your
your words,
(your words
fold into
mine), in
love’s infinite
folding and
unfolding.

I laugh
in remembrance;
for we are as
you prophesied
when your soul
recognized mine,
and from some
forgotten place
I recalled
your voice’s
timeless echo:

together again,
as ten thousand
times ten thousand
times before,
we’ve brought
stars, syllables
and the dance
into Being.

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