The Dance                                                                               

 Oh tangled death,

I have come to see

on these steamy

 

sidewalks past

the midstream

of my life,

 

we were always,

                always dancing

                             in your spiny arms.

 

Those tangoed nights

       of trance

                flirting with

                             illusion’s flimsy

                                                daughter,

 

smoke-grime on her

tavern window

 

did not curb

                     your

                            stepping.

 

                  Yes, we are dancing

                               even now

                                    through stained-glass

                                                        dappled darkness

 

                                                                      as your rhythm ripples down

                                                          like Autumn’s apples

                                        in our supple mouths.