Dancer’s Dream


Sweat drips across a tinted gold necklace,

lips pursed over the edge of a crowned bottle

with a bouquet of wildflowers stitched into the indigo of my shirt;

I am wind.


Rhythm carries my feet in ways that muscles fail to contract,

while my hands sway through pulsing lights and soft palms.

For I am gust.


To dance is to dream,

and not just any old subconscious fragment can force the body to bend.

No, one must envision the sound with their eyes,

and glance upon the scent of passion and freshly poured tequila into a salt-rim glass.

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