TANGO
Outside the air
conditioners breathe
against the weather.
The night
sways its milky light
through these rooms
pleading with time
that the junk of its moment
be preserved in
her dense folds.
We will have none of this.
We have not fallen from grace.
We are inside the fragile
shell of buildings.
We are alone again.
It is as if time
had never made such
another as ourselves.
We are a rare salt
of the heart spilling
each to each.
Here we cannot
hear the street
and its furnaces
of empty space, its
sweltering of forms.
We are moments on
the spine, pure sensation
coursing through the shock
of being chosen by each
to be together.
We hold each other
and listen to the
weave and spin
of the words
of the wave
weave and spin
of the words
weave and spin.
