are you sharing it
with me, this
loneliness?
*
how do they do it,
those birds, keeping a course
through the gale
when even in this still, still room
I can hardly take one step
*
alone is more
alone than
I thought
*
as I fall
I feel how this, too,
is dancing
*
that small voice,
quiet as petals, says
why not be the one
who tears down any wall
that stands between two hearts
*
falling, falling,
I don’t know when I stopped
wanting to be caught
*
new snow in the field
the only tracks there
one woman dancing
*
they sure do mess up
the sheets—excitement
and grief
*
who is the one
that falls and who is the one
who notices her falling
*
midnight.
the power out, I make
of myself a light
¡Ay caramba! The balance, the dance, the telling details. Telling, in their specificity; telling, again, in serving as metaphor. _This_ is poetry. You’ve tapped into a rich source.
And, caramba, again… the stanzas are haiku!
O body swayed to music, O brightening glance,
How can we know the dancer from the dance?
WB Yeats
Thank you ed … Ay caramba!