You hide your hair in the
space above your tucked-away thoughts;
waterfall wor
                        d
                              s
that
            run
                        into
                                                           strea
                                                                                m
                                                                                                s
of consciousness
out of red dam lips
and through airy pipes
to my manhole ears,
stepped on and discarded by feet and prams
for century's years.

If you’d just hold out your arms and lead;
force feed my feet to eat up the floor and once I - promise -
find that rhythm I will tip the tables and turn them so you’ll
be led in a waltz around the place, until your head is hidden by your hair and the dub-step-house-trance coming from the speakers turns to Mozart’s fifth, a symphony that features woodwind and strings in an endless kiss.

Will we dance to all four movements? you say

*Yes, until we become a dance floor nuisance, something more than a blur and an illusion and we're asked to leave.