The articulation of her body
holds a dialect of grace
as it twists and turns in eager
pleasure.
The music courses over her
like a shower head and the
silence is overwhelming;
when I look into her eyes
all is quiet,
dimmed in timid respect,
to the beauty and the depth
hidden deep beneath the caramel.

Her laugh dims the lights
and stops the band as I realize
I am the benefactor of such
grace, born from the breast
of a woman to whom I walk
always slightly behind. Her eyes
meet mine and only mine and
there is something there on
that dance floor, something
divine in the touch
of a hand.

Now, retrospect has glazed these
memories, adding
a golden hue
to that beautiful skin,
and that silver dress,
draped from her like
garland from the body
of almighty Aphrodite.
And that was love,
that was love,
there on that dance floor;
love in my eyes and love in
my heart and love in
every step we took
swinging in the Sinatra breeze
with old men like tigers
waiting for a misstep
--here you are old men!
here is my mistake
look what I have done!--

And the articulation of her body
dips and curves in beautiful
cursive away from me,
as I lay in the same place,
seeing her waltz into the night,
but am further and further apart.
That was love there on that
dance floor,
and the old men watched,
in awe and agony, waiting.
--Old men look how your
patience has paid off! Look
how she dances away even now!-
But there was love on that
dance floor, so even as
your articulation turns
sweet movements
harsh and jagged,
even as you climb
above and away from me
with every breath,
you cannot deny me that.