She was so beautiful this evening when I saw her at the dance hall. She glided when she waltzed to rhythms pulsing an inflamed heart.
It was no drunken waltz we danced, but a foxy trot 'cross a heather field. An English gentleman, back straight up proud, on twenty hand tall thoroughbred, chased a red cat up a tree with the help of two baying dogs. She was more elegant than that wild cat or that black sleek horse as she flowered into the symphony like a roaring tide enveloping a hot smooth sandy beach.
|Contra Dance 10/8/2010|
I danced with a young lady in a green and white dragonfly dress, on a bluff overlooking a rocking sea that blossomed irises, whose milk white moist flesh caressed my palm as a silky soft toasted marshmallow does when it strokes your lips after you pull the charred shell away. I didn’t dare look at her lest her luminous innocence corrupt my lackluster darkness. In the firmness of the frame, her fleshy shoulder blade gave my fingers and palm hand pleasure. Cinderella was never as beautiful as this girl sitting in her own little corner on her own little chair dreaming to be who ever she wished to be while she spun circles out of a contra swing.
I tear my teeth into a dance like it were a succulent slab of prime rib slathered in uncut horseradish or the tender fatty flank and well cooked tendon in a bowl of pho. She is brilliant when she lines her eyes with dark poems and pulls the lashes long with mascara like the way a cleverly placed adverb lengthens an action into a Picasso.
How do you tell person that you love them when you’ve known them for a long time?
|Contra Dance at Folk Life 2010|