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.

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