another for the amazingly beautiful dancing girl with the hat. tora dost daram.

is offing
i
see your sandy white and
lips found parting (hear that
gentle sound as saliva releases jealous hold) in
smile.

not to be trite but i do
sometimes find myself glancing away as if
the sun broke through clouding satin sheets
and struck my unexpected eyes.

that clutching of breath is not
painful but rather
sweet like being gripped in lover’s consumate embrace.

movement is its own language—
like religion—
and the fluency with which you speak leaves no doubt.

i understand now, for truth, why millions
court through dance,
as though the foot-hip-hand move could
translate.

(it can.)

for in our dance we touch
the divine and let it own us.
what better mark?
what better waterline of the soul than this?

how do you let God swim in your skin?
with joyous abandon.