IV. Sonnets for Dancer

Your piqué nubility beckons me on

as if a carrot had on stick drawn

above my head, your airy midheaven lights

as if two thousand and thirteen kisses might

compel me to rise unabashed to my future

suns, alone by day but in moonlight sutured

to your heart like stars, distant yet bright

enough to bring new life through astral flight

to my barren planet: rugged, remote, aloof

from the petty pitiance, seeking only truths

that you bring me as regularly

as pirouettes incite naturally

our heart to beat and to you ensue

me as supporting leg: our pas de deux.