THE DANCE, A Poem

During the quiet moments at the beginning
you made your solemn declarations
drank the wine red and deep
ate those delicious little cakes
that the obscure Italian baker
baked in his little shop
that everyone talked about ,
but no one had ever seen.

Then you danced--oh you danced!
swirling layers of flung silk
in diaphanous froth that clung the movement
of your rounded thighs pressing upward
imprisoned in the flow

of the freedom

of the dance.

You were so alone with us then
so unique, your grey eyes at once

embracing the room
seeing everything
knowing everything
knowing nothing
flowing out, then inward

whispering silver like
white wine over rounding ice cubes,
your mystery, then as ever,
invisible as the inner petals of a rose before dawn.

We came with our assumptions
eager
nervous
anxious
to test that the formulas worked--
you merely whirled away
oblivious to the calculations
oblivious to our needs
lost then as now
in the enclosing freedom
the consuming fire
of the dance that

never ends . . .

© clark cook