Feet sad the floor
like record grooves that can't escape the needle,
there's a weariness in the warp and weave of steps.
Eyes are parables,
inner lids see mirror balls, Saturday nights
heat of promise and colour.
The dance ends. Couples move to the side
with thirsts. The band slows for breath.
Where do you go to my lovely?
I move to the centre of the floor.
Music threads my pulse to rise from rock-dead legs
the throw of light is a meadow under moon where
I lift through space levelling on fast air.
There's turn and spin and circles in circles.
I am the ride, the height, the spread,
hymn in the dark, hum behind eyes shut.
Music is mine
all ropes are gone, all winds are free.
When the band stops, glitter falls from the ball
and claims me as a lie.
I wheel myself back from the skid-marked floor.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem