Its motions become emotions, and stay that way.
Touch can soothe, and touch can burn. The sting from
a lover’s palm can do both. Find the nerve that roots
in earliest truth, knowing no better, and there ends
the mystery of love. Only to begin romance.
Grab a rattle, teethe a drum, pound it in driven
snow. We’re windswept into choreography,
the dancing fiddler, or a drunken lecher’s hum,
our valentines turn pirouettes on the same beat
because of these crib-early tempos. Skinned, we dance.
Aching to get us into each others pants,
Body asks, Are my rhythms shackles? Do they mood
the bent wrist, or heel at the chain? Do they draw blood?