Saturday, May 21, 2005
The dance...
the list is short compared to how much i fiendishly write.
get something from the kitchen, she calls from the chair.
they do this dance, their lives comingle.
and yet it is a dance in which they do not touch at all.
they maneuver the same corner with an expert's grace,
the same precision as a trained ballerina.
her in front, him behind, and they pivot in opposing directions around the corner.
never touching.
two lives swirling in the same space and time.
entirely enmeshed by law, completely separate by choice.
it is the sad dance of the falling petal,
the dust to dust prophecy.
once so beautiful and full of promise,
now mulch in the making.
turn the light off when you come to bed.
rule #27: nobody likes poems.
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The official stuff...
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