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.