Poetry And Art

The dance takes you

wing-bourn into the

hot centre,

into skin-on-skin,

grit of sole and palm.

The dance takes you

jerks you out of your

small stance

 -a hard hand

blazing between the blades

of your shouldered shoulders,

pushes you,

ready for it

or not,

into the ecstatic unfolding

dervish of sweat, bone, blood.

Go ahead, try

limply adorning walls—

an insubstantial flower

in a delicate vase.

Feign invisibility, if you must.

But the exalted rhythm

beats, beats

beckons, bids

at any rate

it must have you