She leaned over
her concrete canvas,
       --The canvas
       that wasn't
       a canvas until
       the smile
       behind her smile
       made it
       So.

Ready for color-

She danced with
frozen rainbow
brushes
      --Solid/liquid fun
      that leapt
      and pirouetted,
      deliquescing in
      her hands
      . . . seemingly.

Made for making.

He watched her
steps, in their
       -Beginninglessness;
       projected-threw
       newborn light of
       old consciousness
       in motion
       Speaking.

Gestures of love-

Drawing together their
formlessly-aligned
intentions,
     -His two left feet
     tripping
     over her lack
     of back-
     facing eyes,
     that are
     without
     Purpose

when life is lived
by the living-
who do not try to
fold fate into
        tiny
        shapes
        of
        futility
  --Other than
        Themselves--

But prefer (rather)
to gambol with
existence
       in the fleeting
       endlessness
       of
       selfless
       company.