I yearn for the precision burns.

Fortification number one:

Keep my back straight; butt, clenched.

Steady now, hips. No expression, shoulders.

Knees overshadow toes as I bend not, squat low.

Muscles bulge, floor gives propulsion.

Breath shortening. Feet rising as I

learn (to contain the fissure in my bones),

to dance.

To dignify my actions with practiced art.

To act gracefully without second-guessing.

(Doubting oneself causes disgust in the onlooker).

Looking good is irrelevant; self-trust is trustworthy.

There is no movement, for the moves were there

already; no direction, for that implies

two- the mover and that which is moved- and

I am

one.

my lips are wilting, like the rose i keep

pressed between my heart and my memory,

parched as parchment that has no words or ink,

nor anyone to read it (nor would eyes

be so bold); for my lips are dangerous:

they speak with an open blood wound- they glare

like the yellowed orbs of a gang of wolves,

and snarling too, my lips hunger for rare

rare love; to pass parchment again, with you.

carouseling

We are all socket-swivelers, focused

not on anything in particular,

but on a well-hidden and deeply set

(description evading; innately felt)

and extremely vain -------- curiosity :

to swivel and to stare, at space itself (!)

There is no compare to our silliness.