XIV. Sonnets for Dancer
It’s rare to light this late at night
our burning casual evening rhyme
encased in the walls of our tight
little peaks sliding smooth into time
well-loved like moments moving, mounting
more like love will make so let me
be inside that portrait, forever touting
tickles en tournant, laughter free
of charge, of static, our hearts well-sparked
into a love that abounds, pounds, contracts
like life-like passage of our humors unmarked
by the particular kinks of your newer cortex
we might, at last, softly collapse with two
candles whispering of us, the lucky few.