Won’t you me the dance
out of reaching your space
into nothing close where longing
breeds its sorrow armor
(amour)?
Drum talks your babel tonguing
instinct-burnt incessancy;
naturalized immortalifications
reduced to venial chancery
in the cold light of reminder.
My number forgets itself
when not recalled;
soon, its once my tender memory
archived upon three days hence.
My legs are not broken,
won’t you me the dance?
When music’s beatless ardor
swells into itself, then poetic
gran plies split themselves
and we have only the panic
of this moment.
1994
Another one from the Memphis years.
