VI. Sonnets for Dancer

Gleaning sheaves from your minute denials,

I will harvest a cake for your returning sun.

Floating ballon when our time rests dials

over a future and past when noonday has run

so far, so tired, collapse ephemerally

over a body so long, hard, solemnly felt

as a lover-intended tongue threshes giggly

gentle ringing between your toes: I gather spelt

from each tiny entrapment, that tickling fresco,

the hungry brush painting just that sweet word:

Love, for you, cast as the genuine arabesque

poised for flight, for you are my paradisal bird

shedding your feathers in such a humble lek

preferring my gander on this earthy trek.