The drum stick ricochets off skin
Like the flutter of wasp wings.
They dance – thrust, throw, shove, grind –
Frenzied, hurried. Dirty
They’re pigeons in heat.
The tiny hair on their cheeks has risen.
Accidents happen – gaze, chests, bottoms, lips.
Around them, within them, their own blood
Turns to sweat. The air turns musky;
Their voices, husky. Zoom in, out of focus.
There’s nothing but the sound of them
Breathing. Nothing; but them.
And her eyes, they said,
To the world: “Dead
I might be to you,
But i only seek new
Horizons to cruise,
Far away from those blues,
For flight, for freedom,
For jazz, and just some
many little joys. i’ll take
All that heartache,
Thank you, i’ll keep it,
I know, it’ll do its bit.
None were mine to call,
Nor was i theirs; in all
I did just fine, i think,
Never fell off the brink,
But for all the pieces
That fit, the creases
Only made for more eloquent
Satin. Now that i’m bent
Into shape with this pirouette,
To forever whirl, i am set –
Yes, i will, i’ll take my chances,
For I have the soul that dances!”