Dancers

 
We danced in the street, they gave us
loud music, turned up to the max.
Salted blood from eardrums, from the nose.
It ran rich, burning across the chest.
And we danced harder and harder.
You drew closer and closer.
Increasingly crowded into the loneliness of
our breaths like a handkerchief, like a glove.
...Only her face was pale.


Hotter, sweatier still,
I grabbed her fingers and waist
and with a gesture not my own,
tore away her transparent dress, undressed her.
How wild!
Here is the velvet skin.
Here is the subsoil arriving in December.
Here is her breast lit by
music cutting into flesh.


The erection met with wonder!
It was of electric beauty.
We were the frightened dancers of the street,
slipping on blood that ebbed and spoke...
We were alive—small, so small, at least a minute—
dancing our part.


My dancing body
entered her cold, calm, pale, perfect,
and the blood covered the music slowly, carefully.