the skin and the smiles
the bones, small as toothpicks
white as a shower stall and cold
frail and long
as an opera on Saturday afternoon
the fingers trace an ending, a line
down my neck, a line
from a song 23 years ago that still
makes me open
slowly

a roar then
a roar from the old bones
the dancing hips
the cold night the blood moon and the song
the tapered fingers, fine and long and linen creased
tickling the curve of the night sky
and crying