XV. Sonnets for Dancer

Count on these hours to pirouette and fall

into places unmentioned, continuous, extolled

as sunken cities’s tale, like soaking highways raw

with tears from the clouds of the morning rigmarole

cascading, replacing the preceding, seizing sweat

of salutary evenings in the pursuit of happiness.

Relief pleas, please, tell me again of sweet regret

soured with time, acidophilic, dark loving unremissed

before our sun comes anew, primed, prepped, and glazed

with the gemstone movements culminating, effervescence contained

in walking fog, in wetter drives seeking certainty unfazed

by the sickled toes, inept throes, the port de bras unarranged.

Count me in two, three, polonaise passing as is reason

better felt than spoke, tethers broke, held in, breathing en poisson.