dear Windy,

Not Gene Kelly I say.
More like King Kong
When coming to the art of
Floor and song.
Not my feet that are
The concern, you say,
More my gaze that might
Lure your heart to stay.

Chin up, young master,
Comes the royal request
For my eyes to feast on
Porcelain face,
High cheeks, sure brow,
What lines can compose
A neck and an ear
With the scent of a rose?

Is there music in my dream
Or the Victrola's breath
Sending spring to my legs
Before near to my death
I now know it's your tummy
Flat-flat onto mine
Sweet rocking our boat
Step-stepping to time
As the wax plate now skips
As do I, but not not falling.
Might I bolt to both of
The double doors calling?


What holds in the end?
Is it hand on the waist,
The sure gaze of love
Or the terrors we face?
It's our birth scars of old
Regenerate. Anew.
Blood and Song
That attach us like glue.